


Ashes, Ashes

by CourierNinetyTwo, QuickYoke



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is a queenship no mother can contest --- a fruit that's death to taste: dark flesh, dark pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This was the final step.

Blake took a deep breath as she adjusted her feet on the launching platform, angled so the first somersault she did in the air would be smooth. If she gauged the distance right, it would only take a few calculated leaps to land at the midpoint between the cliff and the temple, allowing her to watch for anyone who approached. There were plenty of perches to be had in the forest; Blake knew most humans never bothered to look up, and why would they? Their prey was meant to be the Grimm, not one another.

A glance each way revealed she was in the middle of the pack, so to speak. Several students had to make the jump before she did, the line ending with that blonde boy, Jaune. On her left, a rabbit-blooded Faunus was reciting something too low to hear, the scent of Dust emanating from the girl’s skin. Such was the fate of mages; their affinity for channeling Aura made them susceptible to emotional flare-ups. Blake planned to watch her ascent with caution, considering how easy it could be to land grouped tightly together.

There was a soft huff from Blake’s right, the sound holding a high, breathless lilt. Weiss Schnee wasn’t used to be kept waiting, that was certain. White hair from a recalcitrant ponytail was flipped back over one shoulder as Weiss’ slender fingers toyed with the multi-colored barrel of a rapier. The heiress’ footwork was a bit of a mystery; offset to the left, legs tensed, as if the plan was to walk on the air itself. Blake hadn’t been able to discern what Weiss’ Semblance was at a glance, unlike that girl Ruby who shed petals like a garden in full bloom. That sort of speed seemed useful, even if the effect was inordinately flashy and subsequently revealing.

The solid grind of gears warned that her turn was fast approaching. Blake loosed the slack of Gambol Shroud’s ribbon around one wrist, ready to draw the blade from its sheath the platform shot her into the sky. Despite the risk, she took a split second to tug at the cuff of her sleeve, ensuring it wouldn’t slip down in the force of the wind.

Springs snapped under her feet and she was airborne, holding her breath until she reached the top of the arc. Blake exhaled sharply and flipped forward, feeling the resistance against her clothes, the chill along what skin was bare. There were only so many ways to slow the descent, and by the time her boots were gracelessly clipping leaves off the tops of trees, Blake had a solid grip on Gambol Shroud’s hilt, prepared to toss it as a last minute save if the fall was higher than expected.

Forcing her body into a straight line, she dropped like a stone between gaps in the foliage, landing on a branch that swayed and bent before it steadied under her weight. Pressing back against the trunk, Blake went still, feeling a subtle twitch beneath her bow as she strained to listen. Gunshots echoed in the sky above, but there was no answering snarl or howl. The Grimm were too smart to come lumbering out at the first sign of an intruder in their woods; they would wait until someone isolated could be cornered, preferring the ten-to-one odds of an easy kill to a larger share in the meal.

Her target couldn’t be far. Blake frowned as she caught the scent of phosphorus and gunpowder on the air, lacking the bitter sapor of soot. The source became apparent with a triumphant yell overhead, followed by a gold and tan blur. There was a click of cartridges reloading before Yang spun in a tight corkscrew, launched by the next shot of those bright gauntlets out of sight. Even in the blonde’s absence, the odor of a freshly lit match remained, sulfur lingering on the back of her tongue like she had just swallowed fire, a mephitic tang.

Blake sighed, trying to shake the tension out of her shoulders. Everyone had to have landed by now; the hunt was on. She jumped to the next thick branch without disturbing a single leaf, finding a rhythm as each step took her deeper into the tangle.  _Silence breeds discipline, Blake._  Ducking the remains of a Nevermore nest with an inch to spare, she swung a tight turn with Gambol Shroud, leaving a clean slice through the bark. Keeping the temple to her right would be the key, making a circular sweep around its boundaries until she found who she was looking for.

A sluggish hiss drew Blake’s attention to the ground. The dueling heads of a Taijitu had been roused, baring twin mouths full of serpentine fangs. It could snap up into the branches if it wanted to, but the creature was drawn to a boy in green -- Ren, if she remembered correctly -- who lacked an advantage in both height and distance from his position. When he started to retreat, Blake turned away, delving into the thick crown of another tree. Anyone skilled enough to earn a spot at Beacon would have the wherewithal to defeat a single Grimm. Ozpin had a reputation to maintain, after all.

By the time she’d outrun the hiss and slither of the Taijitu, someone’s stray shot or lick of fire had filled the copse with the stench of charred wood. Blake glanced around, looking for the cause, but there was no one in sight, no plume of smoke to trace. No matter what was uttered about Faunus under everyone’s breath, sense of smell could only guide her so far. Another swing dropped her halfway down into the next tree, cutting off the view of the sky in exchange for a better vantage point into the depths of the bushes.

There was a low rustle before an Ursa clambered out, claws impatiently biting into the dirt. It had the lean build of a beast left hungry a season too long, all appetite and no rationale, rearing back before it set off in the opposite direction. A low growl further in the distance signaled there was another lying in wait, summoning a bit of help before it lunged. Blake crept further down the length of the branch before tumbling forward, waiting until the very last second to meet the air. Her landing was muted by the grass, another roll tucking her behind a neck-high thicket.

Beyond the breathing of the Ursi, there were footsteps with an even gait, accented by a short, thick heel. Was it Yang again? Blake cursed herself for not paying attention to everyone’s footwear; it would have made tracking by sound alone that much easier. Curiosity lured her forward, mindful of the Grimm still in range. Gambol Shroud could pull her back up to the trees in an instant, but that wasn’t an excuse for complacency.

It was Yang. The blonde was walking through a wide clearing, apparently heedless of the Ursi that had been jostled awake by her landing. Blake slipped behind a tree, taking a brief moment to ease the ache in her thighs from staying crouched for so long. Falling back into the brush would give her enough space to avoid Yang’s attention, even if it left the other girl unawares of the Grimm approaching from behind.

“Hello!” The yell startled her, prompting a quick dash back into the bushes. “Is anyone out there?”

Blake held back a groan of dismay and plucked a few broken stems out of the top of her hair. Yang had been bellowing the question to the entire forest, not her specifically. A light tug pulled Gambol’s ribbon back out of the shrub where the slack had caught out on a winding branch.

“Hello!” Yang shouted again. “I’m getting bored here.”

Through the underbrush, Blake could see the tips of the other girl’s boots, polished and reinforced. A few more steps and Yang would be nearly on top of her, but a snap of branches on the other side of the clearing drew the blonde’s attention, heels making a sharp, quick turn. She had never been more grateful to a Grimm in her life.

Ten more steps in that swagger of a stride put Yang within reach of the hidden Ursa’s swipe, but the beast was cautious, not leaping forward even when the bushes concealing it were parted open by black-gloved hands.

“Ruby, is that you?” Yang asked, making Blake’s brow knit. Of course the blonde would be looking for her sister. They had to know each other well enough in combat to make a striking duo. “Nope.”

The Ursa roared as it was uncovered, lunging with both massive arms ready to rend open its prey. Yang dodged without a second’s delay, gauntlets transforming in a series of clicks. That gunpowder scent returned, the first shot fired as the second Ursa leapt into the fray. Blake gulped down a breath as fire exploded from Yang’s fists, propelling heavy blows right into the skull of the closest Grimm.

A flip put Yang out of range of the next swipe by centimeters, prompting a full-throated laugh by the time the girl landed. Blake’s mouth tightened into a frown as she saw a golden strand of hair float by; apparently one claw had nicked a wayward lock. The amusement she expected to see was suddenly overcome with a swell of rage, Yang’s Aura exploding outward in a halo of fire. Blake felt a wave of heat as the air itself was consumed by the flames, orange and yellow swelling like a taunt to the Ursa’s size before Yang launched forward.

Blake pulled her knees up to her chest, feeling the cold edge of Gambol Shroud press flush against the coils of ribbon around her arm. The weight was steadying, familiar. Every solid thud of Yang’s knuckles against pitch black fur and muscle was accompanied with another angry burst of fire, sending one of the Ursa through a tight cluster of trees that instantly turned scorched and brittle. The second Grimm was closing fast, ready to shred through the blonde’s exposed back with claws and teeth alike. That flame would be snuffed out in an instant, leaving nothing but the acrid splash of blood and gore behind.

She knew better. Her arm tensed up as she forced herself to stand, the strain making Blake grit her teeth before she aimed the blade and let it fly. The ribbon slid smooth as silk away from her arm, pulling taut the moment steel found purchase six inches deep in the Ursa’s skull. A confused growl was the last sound the beast made before she followed its descent, the beast’s body crashing on its stomach a few feet away from Yang. Blake whipped the blade back with a single tug, palm open wide to catch it.

_Look away, Blake, look--_

Yang’s eyes were the same shade as lilac petals, out of sorts with the rest of the girl except for the fact that they were bright, lush color. Bright like the sun, the corona of fire that could erupt at any instant from the blonde’s skin. Blake could taste it as if she’d pressed her lips to molten metal, plunged herself into the heart of a forge. She swallowed past her racing pulse, letting her mouth quirk in a reflexive smile.

“I could have taken him.” Yang said with a grin.

Blake felt her smile break, reminded of her mission by the cold feeling that clutched tight around her heart. She had already gone off the plan, completely off the mark. There wasn’t any way to salvage it without breaking the rules or relying on dumb luck, which was the purview of fools and prophets. Yang, thankfully, didn’t seem bothered by her lack of a response gesturing with one collapsing gauntlet to the trees past the curve of the mountain.

“This way, you think?” She asked.

Blake shrugged. It was the general direction they had to go, and she could take the lead if Yang got turned around. “Sure.”

From the other girl’s bombastic introduction the night before, she expected non-stop attempts to start a conversation, but Yang was surprisingly quiet, falling into an even pace alongside her. The Grimm gave them a fair berth, although whether it was because they heard the agonized deaths of their fellows or were distracted by other hunters-to-be, Blake couldn’t say. Walking was a bit slower than she liked, but expecting Yang to follow her breakneck pace up in the branches may have been asking too much.

When they came over the edge of a hill, the temple was revealed, nestled in a thick circle of trees and uneven ground. Yang spared a glance her way in silent confirmation before they started to work their way down, stopping in the center of the carved stone circle. Several of the columns had already been stripped of their relics, which was impressive. Perhaps she hadn’t been the only one privy to the location ahead of time.

Blake narrowed her eyes at the black bishop piece, wondering if any traps awaited whoever plucked it from its stand. That would be a much better test of survival and wits than doing backflips over the backs of a few Grimm. She was about to reach for it and see when the weight of Yang’s stare settled between her shoulders. For a split second she was concerned her ears were visible from behind, but a single cautionary twitch proved that they were still well and bound beneath the bow. Perhaps breaking the silence would help.

“Chess...pieces?” Blake asked aloud.

Yang let out an agreeable hum. “Some of them are missing. Looks like we weren’t the first ones here.”

She turned on her heel to face the blonde, deciding to let the bishop be for a moment. “Well, I guess we should pick one.”

Yang spared only a few seconds to considering the matter, plucking the nearest relic from its perch without an iota of caution. Despite Blake’s reservations, nothing happened when the other girl picked up the golden knight, weighing the heft of it in one hand as if it was a ball to be tossed instead of the badge of their initiation.

“How about a cute little pony?” Yang asked.

Blake blinked, exchanging her disbelief for another small smile. “Sure.”

She did a quick count of the relics. If there were four to a team, then this could still be fixed. It was just a matter of ensuring the right students were handed the right pieces. Closing the distance between her and Yang, Blake put her back to the remaining knights, hoping her presence would be enough of a deterrent to taking them. The type of relic didn’t matter for the sake of the initiation; surely the others would claim the rest without thinking about it.

“That wasn’t too hard.” Yang said, passing the knight from hand to hand.

Blake shrugged. “It’s not like this place is hard to find.”

When the screech of a Nevermore cut through the air, her eyes flickered upward. The bird’s prodigious wingspan briefly eclipsed the sun, making it look like a solid black shape before it shot forward, revealing two girls clinging to its razor-sharp feathers for dear life. When Blake squinted, she could make out a scarlet cape snapping openly in the wind on one and the snowflake etched on the back of the other. Their grip wouldn’t hold for long, be it because the beast shook them off or the better idea of braving the fall.

For once, luck was on her side.

 

\---

 

The lights above the stage were huge.

Blake hadn’t been in front of this many humans since she carried a sign for the White Fang, the faces of Beacon’s students blending into a monolithic mass of color and noise. Even after Ozpin tapped his cane against the floor for silence, an undercurrent of indecipherable chatter remained in laughs and whispers. As each team was announced, the crowd would briefly erupt with a cheer and thunderous applause, like they were celebrating the achievements of friends instead of perfect strangers. By the time Cardin Winchester was basking in his newfound leadership position, she had stopped tensing at the clapping, trying to keep her expression calm and empty.

It was difficult when her ears ached, trapped for far too long underneath the bow. There hadn’t been a moment to slip away since they returned from the forest as they were immediately ushered to the auditorium by Goodwitch, who had offered a sedate congratulations and instructions to stay put after everyone was settled into teams. Blake wasn’t used to keeping her Faunus heritage concealed; there was never a reason to in the past. Only the fear that everyone watching would notice a twitch if she adjusted the ribbon kept her hands still, clenched into loose fists at her side.

When their announcement came, Yang rushed past her to crush Ruby in a hug, both entirely oblivious to the resentful stare Weiss leveled in their direction. Blake stifled a small smile; it was clear the heiress had expected to hold rank here as well, as if a fortune and reputation could serve as a replacement for charisma. She noted the bruised ego just like she had noted Ruby’s age -- fifteen -- with a fair amount of surprise. Skipping two years of combat school was no mean feat, much less with a weapon as complicated as a scythe. As often as the mechanics of Gambol Shroud had earned her an occasional stare, it was a far lighter weapon in comparison, the blades balanced to ease their burden.

“All first year students must now report to the second floor to claim their uniforms and scrolls.” Goodwitch’s voice boomed with authority, even absent a microphone. “Dinner will be served shortly after.”

“Good, I’m starving.” Yang muttered, Ruby’s stomach offering a veritable growl in agreement.

Weiss didn’t comment, continuing to seethe, but Blake was feeling the growing pangs of hunger too. She had gone plenty of days absent food before, although never after anything as thoroughly exhausting as fighting the Nevermore. There was still a long run ahead when their orientation was finished; Blake hoped the school didn’t look unkindly on those who filled their trays with second and third helpings.

Ruby led them to the single-file line exiting the stage with a confident stride, nearly bouncing with every step as Goodwitch started to dismiss the other students back to their dorms. Blake stiffened a little when she heard Yang’s knuckles crack from behind her, the pop that followed of Ember Celica’s exterior plates. Even out of battle, that subtle hint of gunpowder and stifled flame was there, muted as it was by the scent of their sweat and Weiss’ perfume; the latter was strange, heavy with notes of fameuse and white rose. Nothing like the cedar and undertones of leather she was used to.

Their uniforms were passed out by an older man who asked everyone their name twice, rheumy blue eyes pinching together before he checked off each name on his list. Blake wasn’t overly inclined to the skirt, but it would do as well as anything else. Another twinge went through her ears and she held back a hiss of pain, fingers biting into the golden piping of the jacket.

“Do you think I can wear my cape with this?” Ruby asked, holding up the shirt. “I mean, it’s red. It matches, right?”

“There was a list of approved accessories in the orientation handout.” Weiss said. “Didn’t you read it?”

Yang frowned. “Was that what they gave us on the airship? I think most of those were paper cranes by the time we landed.”

Weiss’ aggravated huff was cut off by Goodwitch’s reappearance with a group of senior students, all holding neck-high stacks of scrolls. They were passed out one by one, still collapsed into small white bricks. Blake turned hers over, examining the small logo etched in the corner over the battery case. In silver letters underneath the snowflake it read:  _Powered by the Schnee Dust Company. All Rights Reserved._

“Hold down the yellow diamond on the left to turn your scroll on.” Goodwitch said, demonstrating with the one in her hand and displaying it to the line. “A screen should come up and allow you to register it to your name and team. Tomorrow morning you’ll receive a mail to download the key software for your rooms. If you have any issue registering your scroll, please raise your hand.”

By the time Goodwitch had finished, Blake saw Weiss’ fingers flying across the front of the screen, dragging the icons around to organize them into even lines. Ruby was entering her name with cautious single-finger typing while Yang seemed to be curiously comparing the color of the power diamond to the shade of her golden hair. Blake opened the scroll with a soft sigh, watching as it flickered to life.

She punched in the team designation first, fingers hovering over the digital keys after she tabbed to the section for her name. There were no arrests under the Belladonna name, not since her parents were killed. Blake remembered the police handcuffing her at plenty of White Fang demonstrations, but even they didn’t want the bad press of throwing a child in jail for the night, Faunus or not, so there was never a file added to her permanent record. She had learned to slip from the cuffs by the time she turned ten, anyway. If Ozpin had accepted her transcripts at face value, using her last name shouldn’t be a risk.

_Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, maybe._  There were too many variables to keep track of. Blake typed in her name quickly, a soft chime emanating from the scroll as it loaded the home screen. The scrape and clatter of footsteps warned that the line was moving once more, this time towards the cafeteria. She pressed the button to close the device again, reminding herself to find out its full capabilities when there was a spare moment.

When the wide double doors opened at the end of the hall, the clash of noise and scents outweighed the auditorium’s fervor ten times over. Students -- mostly human, although Blake caught sight of one dark tail and a set of horns -- milled around with trays laden down with food, searching for spare seats while teammates shouted at one another over the dull roar and clatter of silverware. Blake tucked her scroll and uniform tight under one arm before they were led into the fray, allowing her ribbon-bound hand to remain free.

Yang’s knuckles tapped her shoulder as they pushed their way into the main line. “You think the food here is any good?”

It didn’t smell terrible, at least. “I’m not sure.”

Yang shrugged. “I’ll just try a little of everything, I guess.”

‘Everything’ was comprised of a dozen different counters along one wall, offering an unbelievable variety. Piles of precariously stacked fruit were next to a butcher’s worth of meat, the desserts alone taking up a wealth of space, comprised of puddings and pies and too many kinds of pastries to count. Blake watched Ruby surreptitiously push a heap of chocolate chip cookies onto her tray, adding an apple after a second thought. Weiss was putting together a salad that looked more intricate than edible as Yang started to build what seemed to be a monstrous triple decker sandwich.

Blake took three plates, stacking the first with whole salmon from one of the foil-wrapped displays. They were still steaming hot, sliced just right to be pulled apart, but it seemed like she had been the first to take any. Maybe the eyes put them off. The next she filled with salad and the last with a couple of oranges and a banana, frowning at the grotesque smiling face the arrangement of the fruit made.

Weiss cleared a space for them at the end of one table with a chilling glare, prompting a pair of casually sprawled upperclassmen to straighten up and move further down the bench. Ruby and Yang took the seats at the edge of each side, the sandwich the blonde had made swaying dangerously until the tray was put down. The bread was soaked through with fish sauce and chili oil, but that didn’t stop Yang from picking it up with both hands and squishing it together tightly enough to take a bite.

Blake ate in silence, using a fork to strip the salmon down to the bones and savoring every bite. It was different than the rich food she was used to, the kind that sat in her stomach like a stone until she was excused from the meal. By the time she’d gotten to the last plate, hands occupied with peeling the first orange, Yang’s stare had become painfully apparent. The sandwich had been reduced to a scattering of crumbs and a few drops of oil, but Weiss was still idly spearing cherry tomatoes and eating them one by one, meaning she wasn’t the only one being waited on.

“Damn, Blake.” The blonde’s smile was broad, without a hint of guile. “You didn’t seem like the type to clear off three plates.”

“Post-combat nutrition is important.” Weiss remarked, eyes pointedly directed towards Ruby’s plate. The cookies were gone, but the apple was only half-eaten.

“I’m not knocking that. I just don’t know where she’s putting it.” Yang said, looking back her way. “I saw you tossing that blade around out there. You’re ripped.”

Blake hesitated, fingertips biting into the flesh of the orange. What was she supposed to say in this situation? “Thank you.”

“This team’s going to rock, no question. Right, Ruby?” Yang took her sister’s somewhat tired grin in answer. “Especially now that Weiss has come around.”

The heiress’ shoulders became a rigid line. “Come around? I’m not going to apologize for being caught in an explosion.”

That was the spark for a three-way argument, Ruby’s stammered apology countered by Yang’s indignant protest. Blake felt herself tuning the words out, splitting the orange in half as soon as it was peeled and eating a segment. As dinner was winding, the sun had set, replaced by the disintegrating circle of the moon. They would be sent to bed soon enough, she wagered, expected to be up bright and early for the first day of classes. She wasn’t expecting to get a great deal of sleep.

After their dishes were loaded into the revolving washer, a deeply embarrassed Ruby led the trek back up to the dorms, avoiding looking Weiss in the eye. Yang was flustered for an entirely different reason, arms crossed as if it would hold another burst of anger back. Blake had been waiting for sparks to fly, the blonde’s Aura to swell and burst into flame, but the heat had never come. She tried not to think too hard about why that was disappointing, nor about how her pulse had quickened due to being in such close proximity.

Cleaning up in the bathroom felt like a ruse, especially after she tucked her clothes under her new bed, ready to change back into them after everyone else was lost to slumber. The shower was nice at least, water scalding the remnants of sweat and dirt from her skin. Blake had removed her bow the second she closed the door of the stall, hard-pressed not to let out a telling groan of relief. As the spray worked its magic between her shoulder blades, Blake carefully massaged the ears atop her head, feeling a wave of fatigue hit her the moment she stopped. It would have been easy to fall asleep under the steady pulse of water, locked away from the rest of the world.

When she emerged, Yang and Ruby were long since passed out, the former having kicked the comforter to the foot of the bed while the latter was wrapped in blankets like a cocoon. Weiss lay on one side in a light blue nightgown, face taut with concentration as her fingers worked across the screen of her scroll. She didn’t spare a glance upward when Blake approached, frown deepening when the device let out an erroneous beep.

“What are you doing?” Blake asked.

Weiss’ brow knit at the interruption. “I’m trying to improve the battery life on this. The Dust coils on this model are terribly inefficient.”

She let out a soft, curious hum. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Is there something you want or do you just enjoy pestering me about my father’s company?” Weiss’ eyes didn’t glow bright like Yang’s when frustration reared its ugly head; they hardened, shards of ice like struck flint splintered off in flakes. “You do seem to know so much about it.”

“No more than anyone else who pays attention.” Blake said softly. “Sleep well.”

The second remark cut off the heiress’ retort, anger crumbling under the weight of surprise. Blake turned away without another word, slipping beneath the sheets and preparing herself to stare at a wall until Weiss’ exhaustion got the best of her. Fighting her own was far more difficult than the boredom of the wait; her expectations of the beds were far surpassed, comfortable enough to draw her into slumber if she didn’t occasionally let her nails bite into her palms.

When the light of Weiss’ scroll finally dimmed, Blake started to stretch beneath the sheets, working some of the tension out of her calves and shoulders. If she was going to run through a forest for a second time today, no amount of warm-up was too much. When her body was warm enough to make the sheets just this side of suffocating, Blake pushed them away as quietly as she could before removing her pajamas. No one stirred as she got dressed again, listening to all three bodies breathing out of sync until she slipped out of the door, holding the door as it closed to ensure there was no click when the lock engaged.

After taking a second to get her bearings, Blake began to retrace her steps back out of Beacon, listening for any professors that might have found it prudent to enforce the curfew. The campus was a sprawl, with too many back rooms and maze-like halls for her to memorize on a single trip. When she slipped out a window and dropped soundlessly to the ground, the first breath of fresh air was revitalizing. The night had a faint chill, mist starting to gather and congeal, viscous in quality, but the cold gave the impetus Blake needed to break into a full run.

A few wide sweeps of Dust-powered lanterns proved that there was something resembling security inside the gates, but Blake simply switched direction until she was outside the perimeter, the cobble under her feet becoming damp grass and wildflowers. Forever Fall was in the opposite direction of the Emerald Forest, its crimson-crowned trees beckoning in the distance. She pushed herself just a bit faster, idly doing a flip over a massive rock that had been split in half by some unknown force an age ago, gripped through and through with moss and lichen. The solitude was a gift after hours spent in the crush of the crowd, much less sneaking through the trees to the temple for the sake of a bauble.

Despite the risk, Blake reached up and undid the knot in her bow, wrapping the shorter ribbon around the wrist she kept bare. Everything became louder, her senses sharper as the chirps and scurrying of lesser beasts met her ears, as terrified of her approach as they would be a Grimm. Red leaves fell around her as she ran deeper into the forest, keeping an eye out for a golden light. There had been no specified time, save that it be after everyone was asleep, but Blake knew that despite the words, some manner of punctuality was expected. She had no intent to disappoint.

It wasn’t a light so much as a diffuse glow around a single tree, like a will-o’-the-wisp wandering in circles to lure wayward travelers. The trunk was several feet thick, every branch carrying decades of twists and turns. Blake had to tilt her head all the way up to see the uppermost leaves, feeling her eyes strain to tell one from another. There was no one concealed there despite her first instincts, the adrenaline from the run through the woods fading to a nervous twist low in her gut.

“Hello, Blake.”

She whirled on her heel immediately, one hand reaching for Gambol Shroud. Her fingers stopped an inch short from the hilt, lowering back to her side as quickly as they had risen. Cinder’s eyes pierced her like no weapon ever could, glowing bright enough to hurt if she dared to hold the older woman’s gaze too long. A pitch black hood concealed dark curls, the cape flowing over both shoulders. Blake knew every inch of the nearly-invisible runes underneath the crushed velvet, how they could ignite without a second’s notice, bringing hellfire in their wake. She lowered her head, even if the gesture of respect sent tension rippling down the length of her back.

“Always so shy.” Cinder murmured, and Blake fought not to wince when dark nails traced across her temple, drifting down the line of her jaw. Cedar and leather was scattered in the few drops of perfume across the inside of the older woman’s wrist, cloying and familiar. “Did you succeed?”

“We’re on the same team.” Blake said softly.

“You’re partners?” Cinder asked, fingertips going still an inch above her pulse.

Blake closed her eyes. “By the time I found her, she already had a partner.”

It wasn’t a lie. That lay in the fact that she hadn’t run from Yang, that she had followed that scent, let herself be hypnotized by arcs of fire and heat. Among so many strangers, the blonde’s Aura was as familiar as it was terrifying, drawing her in like the proverbial moth. Blake took each breath as slowly as she could, knowing any sudden movement would rouse Cinder’s wrath, a furor too quick to leap to the fore. She was already so tired, and there were hours yet before she would be allowed to sleep.

“That’s a shame, although I suppose it was always a possibility.” Blake’s head was tilted up, the press of nails under her chin forcing her to open her eyes. “Tell me your mission.”

“Get close to the Schnee heiress.” She whispered.

“Yes,  _get close_.” Cinder’s honeyed tone wrapped around the words like a serpent. “I want you to be a reliable anchor, the one she’ll trust when everything goes awry. Make friends of them all, mind your leader, but get closest to her. Your name should be first on her lips, as if you were sisters.”

“I--” Blake grimaced. “I don’t know how.”

The smile that followed, bright and polished, was more unsettling than a slap. “I know it’s easy to forget, sweetling, but you’re only seventeen. Watch her, find what ties you share. Another girl understanding her burdens will go a long way.”

Blake nodded, even though it pushed those nails deeper into her skin. “And then?”

“That will come later.” Cinder’s hand fell away, a faint sting remaining in its wake. “I wouldn’t want you to be caught up in the details. Give me your scroll.”

Blake handed the device over without a word, watching as Cinder cracked open the back of the case. The older woman drew something small from the confines of the cloak, the tiny wires sticking from it glowing orange, and inserted it between the two Dust batteries. Something fizzled and Cinder closed the scroll, dropping it back into Blake’s upturned palm.

“That will allow me to hijack a signal and speak with you. Ozpin won’t be able to trace it. When I need something, you’ll know. Otherwise I want all your focus on your first task.”

Blake nodded again, expecting anything but Cinder closing the distance between them, a kiss placed between her two unbound ears. There was barely any contact, a whisper of warm breath, a soft exhalation, but fingers tangled in the back of her hair, stroking slowly as if to soothe a startled animal. She hated how easily her body succumbed, face pressed against one rune-marked shoulder. Speaking was impossible, or at least unintelligible, positioned like this, just as Cinder preferred. The older woman’s embrace was a cage she had climbed back into over and over, chasing distant flickers of affection.

“I made a deal with the leader of the White Fang tonight.” Blake’s eyes went wide, fear telegraphed by the way every muscle in her body went rigid, prompting Cinder’s lips to curl, even if she couldn’t see Blake’s face. “He thought my plan was a revelation. Holding the heiress hostage, the real backbone of resistance broken. For a brute of his sort, he was surprisingly quick to catch on.”

Blake said nothing, praying it was a trick, some sort of cruel joke. She had run from them, left the wolf behind, only for it to crawl into Cinder’s bed and offer promises. That sort of alliance could plummet all of Vytal into war, with no victor but destruction.

“Oh, Blake. There’s no need to fear him.” Cinder sighed, winding a few black strands around one finger. “I raised you up from that rebel blood, didn’t I? Dragged you from the gutter and into my care.”

“Yes.” The word was muffled, but loud enough to be heard, she thought.

Pain shot through Blake’s body as Cinder buried that hand in her hair and roughly yanked back, wrenching her neck back until the line of her throat was exposed, ready to be torn out, ligaments bunched and severable. The scent of sulfur filled her senses, threatening to choke unless she took a ragged breath. It barely helped; stinging as she swallowed, that molten gold gaze about to ignite, to burn her alive.

“Yes?” Cinder hissed.

“Yes...Mother.” Blake gasped.

She was shoved away the moment the answer was given, the rage brimming so close to the surface cooling a few degrees. Sparks danced in Cinder’s palm, tracing veins and lifelines, desperate for some tinder, be it the older woman’s Aura or someone else’s skin, to breathe them into an inferno.

“I haven’t told him who my pawn on the inside is, Blake. If you fail me, he will know, and I’m sure the White Fang would love to give you a traitor’s homecoming.” Cinder smiled. “You told me so much about them in the beginning, after all.”

“I won’t fail you.” Blake said. “I swear.”

“Then mind that ungrateful tongue.” Cinder’s fingers tightened into a fist, extinguishing the sparks. “Turn around.”

There was no point in resisting, not when a single open-handed strike, fingers raked into claws, could send her flying through the forest, snapping bone and scorching flesh. Blake turned to face the tree, watching as the light around it ebbed and flowed, powered by an unknown source. Having somewhere to focus always made the time pass faster, pain becoming a tolerable haze once it went on long enough. She would breathe through it, let her Aura heal the damage, and it would be as if nothing ever happened at all.

The blow she was waiting for never came. There was a crackling behind her, fire snarling hungrily as it feasted, but no breath or solid presence. When Blake risked turning her head an inch, she saw a black circle branded into the grass, dying sparks trying to gain a foothold in withered roots.

She was alone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Almost a week had passed, days bleeding into one another, a blur of classes and new people thronging all around, clustering close until — by the end of their first week at Beacon — Blake could feel her innards coil, her heartbeat drowning out the seconds, a blood-dimmed bruit. And every morning the same maddening routine.

 _Get close_  — that had been the order.

Blake wondered if she could in fact get any closer. Presently Yang was pressed up against Blake’s arm, having good-naturedly shouldered her way to the lone sink in their shared bathroom, she and Ruby bickering over toothpaste while Blake brushed her teeth uneasily to one side, jammed between Yang and the wall, with only an inch between her and the toilet lurking in the corner.

With every brash movement Yang jostled Blake’s elbow, at one point sending her wrist skittering off track so that her toothbrush’s stiff bristles smeared white paste across her cheek. Yang didn’t even seem to notice, and Ruby grinned apologetically. Meanwhile Weiss fumed outside, her voice rising in pitch as the two sisters continued to ignore her.

“How long does it take you to brush your teeth?” Weiss snapped.

“What’s that?” Yang mumbled around her toothbrush, mouth foaming with paste until she looked rabid.

“For the last time — I need the mirror!” Weiss emphasized every word with a thrust of her hairbrush, long white locks curling and falling over her narrow shoulders, still unruly with sleep so that she looked more like the fiery blonde than her usual sleek, poised self.

Blake took the moment to sneak past Yang and spit into the sink. Water rushed into the porcelain basin — both Yang and Ruby heedless of water conservation of any sort — and Blake shook the head of her toothbrush under the constant stream, flooding, full-tilt, from the chrome tap. She barely managed to dodge the returning swing of Yang’s elbow as the girl in question careened back around.

With toothpaste still lingering in her mouth, Blake decided this was a fight best left for another day; mornings were now to be considered a hazard to her health. Gingerly she stepped over the toilet and squeezed through the crowded doorway. Weiss spared her an exasperated glance as she brushed by, still engaged in verbal sparring with Yang, who was  _currently_ _loitering for no good reason in a public space that was designed for everyone’s usage,_ thank you very much.

“There’s plenty of room,” Yang insisted, pointing at the space Blake had previously resided.

“Just,” Weiss stamped her bare foot, the hem of her powder-blue nightgown fluttering, “get out of the way!”

Ruby completely ignored their bickering, fishing hair pins from the mirror-cabinet and leaning into Yang’s space to do so, nonchalant; exposure to the long-limbed affectionate sister all her life had apparently rendered her immune to such situations.

Yang leaned in the doorway, towering over Weiss and leaving only a small gap leading to the bathroom. Expression impish, she crossed her arms, “It’s all yours, Princess.”

Fingers tightened around the silver-handled hairbrush and Weiss’ pale face flushed with rage. She had just begun to raise her arm — perhaps to hit Yang, or perhaps to gesticulate wildly and unleash a wrathful tirade — when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. Whirling around, she snarled, “ _What_?”

Blake held up a portable mirror to her, unfazed.

“Mirrors are useful for a variety of reasons when in the field, “Blake explained, absent inflection, “I keep one on me at all times.”

Weiss blinked, “Oh,” the anger rushed out of her, though the muscles of her jaw remained tight, and she accepted the proffered mirror, “Thank you.”

From behind them in the doorway Yang huffed, “Spoilsport.”

Ruby shoved her out of the way, sending her staggering and simultaneously freeing up the bathroom, “Come on,” she nudged her sister with her elbow, “Leave Weiss alone already.”

“Oh, now you’re on her side!” Yang whined, but she followed Ruby back into the bedroom to get dressed, “What happened to my sweet little sister who would always follow me around, begging to play pony and ride on my back?”

“I never-!” Ruby spluttered, cheeks going pink in embarrassment, “Don’t tell them that!”

Weiss turned the hand-held mirror over in her fingers, speculative; it was plain and black, surface glossy, not even adorned with a generic label, “I guess I don’t need this anymore.”

Blake raised her hands when the mirror was offered back, “It’s fine,” she insisted, “I have others.”

Hesitation in Weiss’ gaze, her eyes flicked from Blake to the mirror and back, the spell broken by a shirt chucked across the room and landing on the nearby bed to hang precariously from the highest bedpost; Yang’s antics seemed to stretch even to her dressing habits. With a scowl over Blake’s shoulder at the rowdy pair getting dressed, Weiss turned on her heel and finally entered the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her hard enough to make the frame rattle and creak.

Blake hid a flinch at the noise, just a small instinctive motion, a twitch of skin around her eyes, resisting the urge to lay her ears flat against her skull. Even so she felt her ears twitch slightly, fur pulling at the soft velvet of the bow. She steeled herself in case anyone noticed, stomach growing taut. When she turned around to make her way over to the chest of drawers, however, Yang and Ruby were chatting amicably, completely oblivious.

Her arm had tickled all morning just like it had for most of the week, a nervous itch whenever she came into close contact with one of her teammates, or the overly-enthusiastic members of team JNPR across the corridor. Even now she railed against the urge to scratch as she pulled a fresh shirt over her long-sleeved pajama top, carefully tucking a tube sleeve over her right forearm and bicep before stripping the pajama top out from beneath it all. Quick, efficient, no movements gratuitous or out of place. She folded her sleepwear and piled it neatly atop her crisp sheets. On the bunk above, Yang’s blankets dangled over the edges.

She briefly considered fixing Yang’s bed, but her internal debate was interrupted by Weiss, who emerged from the bathroom, cool, composed, hair a perfect swirl of white over one shoulder. Pale nimble fingers adjusted the high, red-throated collar, expert little tugs putting the outfit into its final place.

Crossing the room, she picked up Myrtenaster from where it leaned against the bedpost nearest her head while she slept, “Listen up,” she began, rounding upon Yang and Ruby and brandishing Myrtenaster at them. They blinked, staring cross-eyed down the blade’s silvery length, “Gather your things. We’re meeting team JNPR at the practice grounds in twenty minutes.”

Ruby deflated like a balloon, sinking theatrically to her knees, “Weiss!” she whined, “It’s Saturday!”

Planting Myrtenaster’s tip into the ground, Weiss leveled at her a brook-no-nonsense stare.

“Can’t we even eat first?” Yang chimed in, looking just as forlorn, shoulders slumped, the two excelling in histrionics if nothing else, “I’m starving!”

Blake found herself silently agreeing, her stomach gnawing and grumbling as if to remind her of its hunger, but she hesitated, not wanting to cross Weiss in any regard, even in a matter as small as this. She had backed Yang once before earlier in the week, when they had all joined heads to collaborate on a group assignment, only to have Weiss give them both the cold shoulder for hours afterwards. It hadn’t helped that they were right, and that the next day in class the professor went on to explain that what Weiss had proposed was a common error made among first-year students. So she bit her tongue on this occasion, pushing her hunger down; her own needs were unimportant. Going hungry for a few hours was the least of her worries.

“We can eat afterwards,” Weiss retorted, “Besides, the arrangements are already made; we can’t go back on our plans now. I will not have us be known as the flaky team!”

Yang and Ruby started up a chorus of complaints, which was met by a sharp, “No excuses!” from Weiss, who strode forward and grabbed Ruby by the hood, beginning to drag her to the door.

She looked over her shoulder at Blake and said, “Grab yours,” she jerked her head at Yang, “I’ve got my hands full enough as it is.”

Yang turned her best plaintive puppy-dog eyes on Blake, pouting to the very best of her abilities, but Blake just snorted softly in amusement and shook her head, “Come on.”

“Ugh—fine!” Grumbling, knowing her gambit had failed, Yang trailed morosely after Weiss and Ruby, the latter dragging her heels as Weiss stomped down the hallway. No sooner had they started after them, than the door directly across the corridor opened, admitting all four members of team JNPR.

“Hey, guys!” Yang greeted, cordial as always.

Pyrrha smiled, and Jaune raised his hand to wave in return, but before he could speak Nora burst out from around him, “Good morning!” she cried jovially.

Yang smiled, but a muscle in Blake’s jaw twitched at the sudden loud noise. Noticing immediately, Nora cocked her head quizzically at Blake, then beamed, “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Just like Ren!” she zipped around to his side, hands on his shoulders, pushing him forward, “You two should talk! I’m sure you’ll get along great!”

Ren offered an uneasy smile, looking incredibly dubious about the whole proposition.

At that Yang laughed, a low booming sound, and slung her arm around Blake’s shoulder. She smelled like clean woodsmoke and charcoal-fed braziers — scents familiar enough to make Blake tense.

“I don’t think there’ll be much talking in  _that_  conversation,” Yang grinned.

Swallowing thickly, Blake ducked out from under Yang’s arm. Her movement went unremarked, as they all fell into step with one another, a cluster of six ambling after Weiss and Ruby, who were already rounding the corner up ahead, “What did Weiss do to get you guys to agree to this?” Yang asked.

“Actually, I asked her after dinner last night,” Pyrrha answered, “I was hoping to spar with another team; it’s good form to practice with people who have different fighting styles.”

“Oh!” Yang blinked, then tapped her chin, contemplative, “I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah, Pyrrha’s been adamant about practice even during the first week,” Jaune added; he seemed entirely positive about the whole arrangement, happy to lead vocally during combat, while Pyrrha guided their practice sessions during the interim, the most formally trained warrior of the lot, “Says it’s a crucial time for the team and team bonding and all that.”

“Agreed!” Nora chimed in, skipping cheerily ahead of the group. She whirled around to gush, walking backwards as she did so, “It’s been great fun too! Remember when I launched you and Ren into the air, Jaune, and you landed atop Pyrrha, and—!”

Jaune cleared his throat, interrupting with a nervous laugh, “I’m sure you guys have been doing the same though, right?”

Exchanging an uncertain look with Blake, who walked to the side and slightly behind her, hovering in her shadow at the edge of the group, Yang said, “Uh…sure!”

It was a blatant lie, but the others appeared pleased with her response. Ironically Weiss had been moaning at them all week, insisting they get out to the grounds for practice, but every time she had brought up the topic they had been distracted by homework, or a meal, or a rare moment to themselves between dinner and sleep, in which Blake curled up in bed and read.

The others each attended to their own tasks without any regard to her presence. Yang had taken an adjustable bar from somewhere and erected in their doorway for the sake of doing a variety of pull-ups and other physical activities, each more risky than the next. Weiss was still devoted to ripping apart her scroll, laying each of the pieces out in a fanning assembly on the ground, and modifying it to her higher technological standards, only hesitating to exchange snippy repartee with Yang, who hung from her knees in the doorway. Ruby was the quietest of the three, meticulously cleaning Crescent Rose, a content smile on her face as her headphones blared in her ears, blocking out all sound.

By the time they arrived at the practice arena, Nora had already run fifteen laps around the group on their journey, Ren had said a total of four words, and Pyrrha had apologized profusely for accidentally sending Jaune crashing into a nearby pillar when she had playfully nudged him on the shoulder. When they got there at last, Jaune rubbing his side with a wince, Weiss was stretching and Ruby was balancing atop Crescent Rose, tongue sticking out to one side in concentration as she wobbled precariously at their approach.

“Warm-up jog, stretches, then sparring,” Pyrrha said simply. Team JNPR nodded and trotted off as a pack, used to the routine.

“I think Nora’s already had enough of a warm-up for all of them,” Yang watched them go with a rueful shake of her head, long hair rippling down her back with the movement.

“We should be doing the same, you know,” Weiss quipped. She set her legs apart and slowly started to descend, feet spreading as she sank into the splits.

Yang paled at the movement.

“Ouch,” she croaked, watching as Weiss kept going down and down until she reached the ground, stabilizing herself with her fingertips.

“It’s not that difficult,” Weiss shrugged, a short roll of her shoulders, “With practice you could do this too.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Yang held up her hands as though in surrender, “I’ll stick to my warm-ups, you stick with yours.”

Tossing her head, Weiss said, “Your loss.”

Yang was already jogging in place, footwork quick and light, then broad and heavy. She rolled her neck, arms pinwheeling at her side before she tucked her elbows in and brought fists beneath her chin, gauntlets lengthening down her forearms in a series of tumbling clicks, shells whirring into place.

Jabs flew in rapid succession through the air, followed by a flexing of fingers, knuckles cracking, a series of little pops. Yang could switch her stance at a moment’s notice, flashing from sturdy — two feet implacably planted in the earth, immovable as a mountain — to a quick bouncing footfall, a prancing boxer’s step in place, ducking and weaving, all explosive power in her thighs and calves, muscles tensing in her core, her weighty shoulders, to deliver vicious uppercuts. Shotgun shells rained past her elbows, clattering to the floor like wreckage, ruins after a vigorous invasion, come to lay waste to cities with carefree abandon. It was not personal; fires burned, but held against tinder no grudges.

So unlike Cinder. Cinder who was sleek lethality, pure and distilled. She was a burning gulp of fiery whiskey that parched instead of quenched, rasped instead of soothed, all sting and no honey, tossed onto flames that roared in return.

Blake found that she was clenching her hands, breaths having grown short and shallow. Yang took no notice, gaze intense, fixed upon an invisible point on the horizon, the stench of scorched ozone wafting from every flip and flare of her hair. Ruby had leapt down from Crescent Rose and was idly twirling it between her hands like a baton, throwing it up into the air and catching it, until the air all around her was a blur of red and black.

Blake could feel Weiss’ stare center in her direction, eyes button-glass blue and curious. The other girl had already switched legs, and now rose smoothly to her feet. Schooling her features, Blake forced herself to move away from Yang for the time being, knowing full well she would have to stay by Yang’s side during the coming bouts with JNPR, as a good partner ought. For now, though, she folded herself into a series of stretches until Weiss’ attention moved elsewhere.

Blake watched as Weiss picked up Myrtenaster from where it lay on the ground beside her. Dexterous fingers curled around the wire-wrapped hilt, the chamber immediately spinning to white — her default setting, it seemed. She raised the guard so that it hovered over her nose, tip stretching straight up to the sky. A point in her back dropped as she settled into her stance, neck lengthening until she was one long lithe line from crown to heel. Her right foot stepped back and Myrtenaster dropped into a central guard.

She remained there, deep even breaths expanding and collapsing, right hand gathered at the small of her back. Then her eyes sharpened to mirror-thin edges, and Myrtenaster began to move, thumb and forefinger manipulating the blade with deft motions. She was precision and finesse, each placement of her feet a subtle give and take of ground in a dance with an invisible opponent — cool, collected, a pensive stratagem.

Team JNPR returned from their lap and scraped in a few minutes worth of stretches before Yang yelled, “Are we going to do this or what?” punching the air energetically with each word.

“Wait, wait!” Weiss snapped, “Not yet! We need to plan first!”

“Plan? Plan for what?” Yang asked, but rather than reply, Weiss just tugged her over by her scarf, gesturing for Ruby and Blake to join them.

Jaune looked at Blake, who stood close by and asked in a low voice, “How do you deal with that?” He jerked his thumb at Weiss, who was glaring at them both for the delay, eyes like awls.

Blake blinked at him, non-plussed, “What do you mean?”

He stared at her. She arched a quizzical brow when he did not clarify, shrugged, then headed over to the rest of her team.

“What did he want to talk about?” Ruby whispered.

“I’m not sure,” Blake admitted.

“Can we please concentrate?” Weiss barked, pinching the bridge of her nose, “It’s like herding cats sometimes, I swear.”

Blake shot her a sharp, penetrating look, bow twitching in spite of herself, but Weiss continued delivering a series of orders without any notice.

“Our biggest threats are Pyrrha and Nora,” Weiss began, voice lowered conspiratorially, only to be cut off by Ruby.

“Nora? Really?” Ruby asked, dubious, “She seems a bit, I don’t know, off to me. I mean she’s very nice! But—” She corrected herself, waving a hand in front of her face to ward off any sharp rebukes, none of which came.

“They’re our biggest threats tactically because they take the lead,” Weiss explained, impatience richening her voice, drawing it tight as a stringed instrument, “Strategically, however, Ren—”

“Woah, slow down. What’s the difference between tactics and strategy again?” Yang interjected, rubbing the back of her head, “Because…uh…I may have fallen asleep during that class. I refuse to confirm or deny.”

Weiss threw her hands up in the air, “You’re hopeless! Blake, help me out.”

“Don’t let Ren outflank you,” Blake immediately supplied, “And don’t be lured into a false sense of security by Nora’s antics. And don’t focus too much on Pyrrha, thereby counting out Jaune — he’s young, but—”

“Okay, the first part you said?” Yang started, “Good stuff. I get it. Jaune, though?” she grimaced at the person in question, dropping her head down so she could get a glimpse of him through the gap between Weiss and Ruby’s hips. Currently he was bobbing ineptly in place, which caused a loose fitting on his pauldron to slip the armor down his shoulder before he noticed and frantically tied it back into position, “Really?”

“Don’t be so obvious!” Ruby hissed, “What if they see us talking about them?”

“We’re in a huddle specifically designed to discuss the other team’s — ugh!” Weiss made grasping motions in the direction of both Yang and Ruby, as though entertaining the thought of strangling them, “Just—! Forget it! Remember what Blake said, and forget everything else! At least some of us aren’t completely incompetent.” The last was an acerbic mutter under her breath.

“So, no plan?” Ruby asked as Weiss started to turn away from the group.

“Hey, wait! I thought we were supposed to say ‘break’ after a huddle?” Yang queried.

“You know,” Weiss rounded back on them with a hiss, stabbing Myrtenaster into the ground in irritation, “if you’d all just listened to me from the beginning, we would have been at least somewhat prepared!”

“Finger-pointing will get us nowhere,” Yang shot back, never one to back down, “Besides, I remember a certain someone sneaking off for yet another long shower instead of going to study hall, when we all agreed to finally try to get some practice in two days ago!”

“That’s—!” Weiss shoved her finger into Yang’s sternum, realized what she was doing, and jerked her hand back to her side, “— _completely_  beside the point!”

“What  _do_  you even do in the shower for an hour?”

“It wasn’t an hour!”

“Actually,” Ruby whipped her scroll out, dialing it to the stopwatch setting and showing Weiss, “We timed you. It was forty-eight minutes.”

“That’s still not an hour!” Weiss insisted, cheeks growing more and more pink as the conversation went on.

Peering over Ruby’s head to inspect the other team, Blake was relieved to see that they were taking the time to finish off the stretches Yang had interrupted, ignoring them completely — but for Jaune, who peeked periodically over at them, bemused, only this time he caught Blake’s unwavering amber stare and, flushing, snapped his head back around, trying to pretend nothing out of place had occurred. He drew his blade and fumbled with the scabbard as it folded out into a shield before finally locking it in place around his arm.

Cocking her head, Blake watched him, not with amusement but clinical curiosity. He had the same slouch to his shoulders as Roman without the petulant air, speaking more of youth than of unfounded arrogance and sullen malcontent. He would sooner trip over his own feet and found his sword in his chest before managing to land a hit on anyone on their side in one-on-one combat. However, he was far from alone, his teammates standing beside him, bolstering and defending their leader without a second thought, closest to him their most experienced member.

Whereas Weiss was fluted, almost delicate, Pyrrha in comparison was a monument; she stood with solid ground, strong-jawed, peerless, the angle of her chin tilted back to slant the bluff of cheek and nose, hefting shield and spear in unwearied grasp, a stride like grace, a glance burnished with nobility, tempered by a kind smile and kinder eyes. What she lacked in someone like Yang’s boundless exuberance, she made up for in tireless dignity, the very land she walked more bucolic from her passage.

By the time Blake’s attention returned to her own team, the bickering was just beginning to simmer down.

“I refuse to lose!” Weiss growled, jabbing two fingers into the center of her palm.

“Who said anything about losing?” Yang retorted.

“Team RWBY does not lose!” Ruby insisted vehemently, “No way!”

“At least that’s something we can all agree upon,” Blake murmured dryly.

It was meant to be said more to herself than anything, but the other three all looked at her in surprise.

Yang chuckled, “Well, she has a point, guys.”

“Okay, so here’s the plan!” Ruby stepped forward, puffing up her chest and fixing each of them in turn with as stern a glare as she could muster, “Don’t lose!”

Weiss stared at them, her expression a mixture of incredulity and absolute horror. Before she could object, though, Nora’s voice floated over, “Yoohoo! We’re ready when you are!”

“Alright! Break!” Clapping her hands together, Yang bounded away, accompanied by an enthusiastic Ruby.

Weiss gazed after them, still frozen in place, horror winning the war on her face, “Oh no,” she whispered, “We’re definitely going to lose.” She hung her head and let loose a tortured, drawn-out groan.

The two teams took their places across from one another in the center of the small arena, one of many that dotted the landscape around Beacon for students’ use. Bleachers ran up the sides of the enclosed space in case any spectators or waiting participants wanted to sit. Normally teams would have to reserve spots in the arena for practice, but it seemed nobody else was keen on sparring at ten o’clock on a brisk Saturday morning.

Steadying herself, Blake loosened Gambol Shroud, giving slack around her wrist as she reached up, the sink of her thumb lifting the hilt slightly from its scabbard over her shoulder. She dropped into a ready crouch. Beside her Yang spouted tiny jets of flame and trailing smoke from her nose and mouth, grinning when her theatrics made Jaune, who stood directly opposite her, jump.

“Scared, pretty boy?” she teased.

Jaune brightened, “You think I’m pretty?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Weiss drawled. Even as she did so, she saluted to each of the members of team JNPR in turn and to the bleachers, where a referee would normally reside, just a brief nod of Myrtenaster’s upraised guard — some habits before matches were more difficult to break than others.

“Tournament rules apply,” Pyrrha said to the group at large, shield raised, “Every touch with a weapon is a point. Drawing blood or breaking bones results in a forfeit by the offending team.”

Ruby nodded in acceptance, Crescent Rose held at the ready, “Got it. On the count of three?”

“One.”

“Two.”

“ _Three_.”

With a thunderous slam of her leading foot, Yang sent a sickle-shaped corona of flame spilling towards team JNPR, fist following soon after, a scattered blast of faux bird-shot. As one, JNPR gave ground, deflecting the blows, leaping into two pairs when Ruby slashed a wide arc across their front, breaking their focal line. Jaune batted aside another blast from Yang while Pyrrha shouldered her spear into a rifle, firing. Blake leapt forward with a slash, chopping the projectile from the air then sliding Gambol Shroud from her wrist and whipping it around, low. Stumbling, Jaune barely managed to avoid the slice at his ankles.

Behind Blake and Yang, Ruby and Weiss battled Nora and Ren. Tucking into a roll to dodge one of Weiss’ flurries of ice, Nora popped back up, kneeling on the ground, gun leveled at her hip. With that broad smile she fired three shots in rapid succession, left to right, forcing Weiss to curve around or sacrifice points. Meanwhile Ren flipped out of Ruby’s reach, dragging her to the side, letting her whirlwind storm of blows get fractionally too close before surging away once more. The moment she tried launching a shot at Nora, he sprayed bullets at her left side.

“They’re flanking us!” Weiss yelled over her shoulder.

“I know!” Blake called back, coiling the black ribbon around Gambol Shroud and flinging it over Pyrrha’s head to fire down at her back, but Pyrrha whisked about in a circle, sending the shot ricocheting off her half-moon shield, and using the momentum to swing herself back around for a thrust of her spear at Yang’s midriff. Yang avoided the blow only by leaning back and sucking her her gut with a sharp inhalation.

“Too close for comfort!” she yelped, recovering with a surge and swiping the flat of Pyrrha’s spear away with a well-aimed kick.

“Fall back together!” Ruby shouted, burying the curved edge of Crescent Rose’s scythe into the ground where Ren had stood not a second earlier, a tremendous blow that sent dirt flying.

“Are you crazy?” Weiss yelled back, alternately parrying and pirouetting, but still having to retreat, herded by Nora’s strong cleaving attacks, “That’s exactly what they want!”

“Trust me!”

Teeth clenched, they did as ordered, fending off blow after blow until their backs were pressed up against one another, striking down attacks.

“Now what?” Yang asked.

“Weiss, a propulsion glyph!” Ruby demanded.

“ _What_?”

“Just do it!”

With a small shriek of frustration, Weiss flicked Myrtenaster’s chamber and shot at their feet. Black lines swirling in a circle ignited at their feet, launching them into the air in different directions. Blake rocketed towards the ground, punching Gambol Shroud into a far bleacher to slow her descent and landing lightly on all fours. When she whirled around, she saw a streak of red to her right, Ruby sprinting on a flood of rose petals towards team JNPR, who were now surrounded. Blake rushed forward, matching speed, and all four of them descended upon their opponents in a clash, weapons weaving and glancing like a well-oiled machine, a deadly gyre, hook, pivot and plunge.

JNPR was on the defensive now, frantically swatting away barrage after barrage, their footsteps lurching back, crowding one another, dust kicked up and staining the sweat on their necks and temples. Out of the corner of her eye, Blake saw Yang deliver a roundhouse kick, sporting a flourish of brilliant flames, plumes dragged from her heel in a vicious downward strike which dented Pyrrha’s shield, leaving behind scuffed scorch marks on the layered bronze surface. Jaune darted around his partner, seeing a gap, sword-hanging flinging back to hack at Yang’s shoulder. Blake dove forward to deflect the blow, but Yang sensed the attack and swerved out of the way.

“Almost had me there—!” Yang started, but her voice trailed off.

A single golden strand of hair floated, drifting downward, a slow lilt before lilac eyes brimming with horror. A tide swelled, and the horror was washed away, replaced with unforgiving ire. Rage living in her eyes, sending the air reeling, the earth atremble, fire on her tongue, teeth bared in a rictus, snarl, chewing embers.

She lifted Jaune by his throat, expression irreparably ruthless, roaring flames lifting the coils of her hair in serpent curls, scaly bright. Sparks burst from her clenched fist, darting in arcs like bees from the bloated stomach of dead cattle. His booted feet dangled above the floor, too frightened to do anything but cower in her grasp, petrified. She drew one massive arm back, intent on punching him square in the face and sending him flying across the arena, but before her elbow could reach its peak, she heard a terrified yelp behind her, the sound of a kicked animal.

Blake shrank away, cradling her hand to her chest, concealing a raw burn across the back of her wrist, skin shiny — all silver and rose. Dropping Jaune, who slumped to the ground, legs folding under him, Yang reached out. Her eyes were yielding, lavender and concerned, but most of all apologetic, brows furrowed in atonement. The last flickering vestiges of her Semblance — while dying — still lingered, sparks shimmering at her fingertips; she smelled like a cauterized wound, smoldering beneath the surface.

Blake flinched and scrambled back, tripping over her own heels. Her outline trembled, blurring with shadow, shapes writhing; her Semblance flared in response to fear, combating the bitter scent of sulphur that singed the air. It wrapped her in a flailing black shroud, twisting shapes emerging with limbs and maws tipped with talons, grasping hands in claws — wolves’ snapping their slavering jowls, an amorphous, Protean darkness.

Concerned voices above her were a faint murmur in the distance, the swallow of the sea on far shores.

“I didn’t mean—! I’m sorry!” Yang implored tearily, while Ruby rubbed her sister’s back in consolation.

“I think it might be best if you stood back,” Pyrrha advised cautiously.

Nora peered at Blake’s huddled form, knees cinched to her chest, “Why isn’t she healing?”

“I’m not sure she can with her Semblance like that.”

There was a cool touch on her knee. Blake recoiled as if struck, lips peeled back in a grimace.

“Let me see,” a soothing voice, low and balanced, “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

With a steady stream of quiet murmurs, Weiss, kneeling in front of Blake, coaxed her arm from where it was clutched to her chest, revealing the injury. It was a shallow burn, minor by all accounts, though it must have stung fiercely. Blake hissed in warning when Weiss’ hand made to touch. A moment of hesitation, then Weiss coated her hand in layers of slick frost, white-veined like marble. It slowly made contact, fingers wrapping around radial bone, emitting a palliative, yet penetrating cold that leached the burn of all substance.

By the time Weiss managed to lure Blake to her feet, knees still threatening to buckle, an awkward silence had filled the arena. Her Semblance had calmed, leaving no sign of the dark clones behind, save for the anxious stares leveled in her direction.

“I vote we take a break for now? Meet up again some other time and continue? What do you guys think?” Jaune suggested, smile verging on nervous.

“I think that would be best,” Ruby replied, moving forward to tentatively place her hand on Blake’s shoulder. She ducked her head and tried giving a reassuring smile. Team JNPR said their farewells mixed with apologies and sincerity, shooting troubled looks over their shoulders as went ahead and talking quietly among themselves. The others followed slowly, Weiss and Ruby flanking Blake — steps wobbly, skin crawling with intermittent shivers — while Yang trailed miserably behind, their team-building exercise laying in tatters on the arena floor.


	3. Chapter 3

“Students, could I have your attention, please?”

Goodwitch’s voice echoed across the inside of the cafeteria, her hologram flickering to life from a raised, angular platform. Blake was occupied with the remnants of her breakfast, a bowl of a fruit-and-yogurt mixture she’d claimed from the front counter without a second thought. Yang looked up from her food, a piece of her third belgian waffle of the morning sliding off her fork and sending a sluggish splash of syrup across her plate.

She was oblivious to a glare aimed in her direction from Weiss, who sat directly beside her and was subjected to her roaming elbows, until Weiss shoved a napkin at her. Rather than be perturbed, though, Yang just blinked and took the napkin, dabbing at the sticky droplets that had absconded onto the table. Weiss shook her head in disgust and turned back to her poached eggs on toast, eyes flicking up to the hologram above them at the far side of the cafeteria.

Goodwitch straightened her glasses, the projected image blurring for a split second. “Next week is the Family Convocation for all of our students. If you still need to send out invitations, now is the time so we can formalize seating and meal arrangements. You will have the day free from classes, but please ensure your rooms are clean  _before_ your relatives arrive. Thank you.”

The hologram vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Murmurs spread across the cafeteria, students whispering excitedly to one another. Immediately Yang and Ruby exchanged eager glances across the table, wide grins splitting their faces. A clatter to one side; Weiss’ fork slipped from her fingers and fell onto her plate. Blake’s eyes narrowed, the rest of her appetite falling by the wayside. Cinder hadn’t mentioned anything about ‘family’ events; the irony didn’t escape her, leaving no other option but the truth. A piece of it, anyway.

“Dad’s coming in Monday morning at ten,” Yang reminded Ruby, “We can meet him at the front entrance and give him the grand tour.”

“Great!” Ruby said, scarfing down the remainder of her sugary cereal, and mumbling around full cheeks, “We can show him some of the great new moves we’ve learned!” She turned to Weiss and Blake; Weiss was staring down at her plate, fingers clenched in her lap, “What time do your parents get in? We can organize everything so that we can all spend the day together!”

“My father won’t be attending.” Weiss said sharply, starting to bunch her napkin together as if mangling it would bring some sort of relief. “He doesn’t have time for an event without stockholders these days.”

Ruby looked taken aback and she stuttered awkwardly, “O-Oh. Well, um, maybe he’ll find the time.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Weiss snapped, knuckles whitening as she wrapped the rent paper napkin around her hands and pulled it taut.

Blake’s brow knit, wondering where that would leave Weiss for the length of the event. She could only imagine the dormitories would be left open for the sake of curious parents, the entire campus swelling with familial pride. Before she had the chance to excuse herself, wanting to spend the last few minutes they had before class to take another book from the library, Yang caught her eye, offering a smile that showed too many teeth.

“What about you, Blake?” she asked warmly, “I’m sure Dad would love to meet your family.”

“My parents died when I was six.” It felt like a lie, even as it tripped off her tongue. Blake remembered the Faunus with a broken mask who had come to her in the middle of the night, blood drying in the beds of his nails, smelling fresh as though from a butcher’s slab. There had been a clash with the humans; they were gone. Nonetheless, the memory was so distant, losing its details over time like a dream. “I had a guardian until I came of age. There’s…no one now.”

Yang and Ruby stared, taken aback. Hesitant, Yang reached out to gently touch Blake’s wrist, the one she had burned two weeks ago, “Blake, I’m so sorry—”

The kindness was real, but no less for its sting. She had spent weeks waiting to see the other side of Yang, some proof of cruelty or vice, and yet there hadn’t been anything but the almost incessant apologies for that day in the arena. Blake had never heard _I’m sorry_  fastened together in so many different ways, often followed by a touch or a promise to help. Yang was a good partner in every way that should have mattered, but she didn’t want the burden of offering forgiveness all over again.

Nevertheless she jerked back, hiding her hand under the table to avoid any unnecessary contact, “I told you: you don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“I’m sorry—” Yang started, realized what she’d done, and slammed her mouth shut. She cleared her throat and picked up her fork, pushing what remained of her waffle around her plate, looking downcast.

The scrape of two chairs across the linoleum floor; Weiss and Blake rose to their feet at the same time, intent upon leaving. Blake’s stomach was threatening to replace her breakfast with bile, demanding some respite from everyone around her, if only for a little while.

“Where are you going?” Ruby blinked up at them both.

“Library,” Blake said. She tried her best not to sound sharp, but couldn’t help coming off so, if Yang’s further deflation was any indication.

“Back to our rooms,” Weiss answered, still gripping the napkin tightly in her left hand, though her expression gave away nothing, “I have some notes I need to type up.”

Cocking her head quizzically, Ruby asked, “Didn’t you type up all of last week’s notes on Friday?”

“Well, I took some more,” Weiss snapped, “Like you should have done,  _Team Leader_.”

She stormed off before Ruby could reply, heels clicking angrily against the floor, her back ramrod straight and tense. As she started weaving her way through the cafeteria, Jaune rose from the nearby table where team JNPR sat, almost bumping into her and sending his finished tray flying.

She dodged around him with a sneer and kept walking, ignoring his apologetic pleas. With one last indecipherable look between the two sisters, Blake followed, trailing behind Weiss until they departed in separate directions at the exit. Weiss continued without a backward glance, but Blake watched the retreating sway of her hips, the long dip of her white hair, until she rounded the corner down the hallway.

“I vote we just,” Yang crossed her arms at the wrists as though warding off a blow, “stop talking completely, Sis. This is not our morning.”

“Yeah,” Ruby replied, glum, “I think you’re right."

 

—

 

Going for a run around campus after dinner cleared some of the static out of Blake’s head. Classes were constantly disrupted by chatter about the upcoming event, meaning there was little point in taking notes between Port and Oobleck’s flustered demands for silence. Yang had managed to swallow down the instinct to apologize for the rest of the day, but in its place, there were jokes and smiles, the camaraderie that Blake could only accept with nods and the occasional comment. The confines of Beacon’s halls felt stifling by the time they were dismissed, leading to her to throw her books unceremoniously on her bed before sprinting back out of the room.

By the tenth lap, there was a faint ache radiating down to her calves, frustration finally giving way to fatigue. None of the students sitting outside paid her any mind, lost in their own conversations until the sun fell past the horizon, a soft chime reminding everyone that curfew was fast approaching. Blake slowed to a jog, stopping by the metal frame of a lamppost to stretch before turning back towards the dorms, grimacing at the sweat that had gathered beneath her bow. A shower and sleep would ease most of her ills, refreshing her patience for another day of training for something she’d never be.

After a brisk trip up the stairs, she reached the room, surprised to find that their door was cracked halfway open. Ruby had left it that way more than once, cape catching in the jamb when the team was forced to hurry to class at the last minute. Both her and Yang should have been back from dinner by now, ready to burn off the last of their energy before falling into bed, but the only voice Blake could hear came from Weiss, tone surprisingly light, almost cordial. Nothing like the daggers the heiress had been spitting in everyone’s direction since breakfast.

“—It’s next Monday. I know there’s a Plant and Equipment inspection that day, but I’ve worked out that if you take the private airship at twelve-thirty, you should be able to make it here by two.” Weiss stumbled, voice suddenly losing its grace, growing short and unsure, “If you have the time, that is. It’ll only be for a few hours. And the corporate management meeting isn’t until ten in the morning on Tuesday. And—”She was starting to babble, and it was obvious she realized it, breaking the flow with a clearing of her throat. Pulling the scroll away from her mouth, she steadied herself with a deep breath before bringing it back and speaking into the receiver once more, “—And it would be a good opportunity for you to influence some very important families from around Vytal. If you can, have your secretary ring me and we’ll coordinate the rest.”

As soon as she heard the soft click of the call ending, Blake opened the door all the way, slow enough to prevent the hinges from creaking. Weiss had her back to the threshold, both hands holding onto the scroll, Myrtenaster haphazardly positioned across the width of the heiress’ bed like the blade had been tossed aside. Usually it was polished before being placed within easy reach, treated with the utmost care. Yang and Ruby were nowhere to be seen, their sheets in the same disheveled state as they had been before breakfast.

At her first step into the room, the floorboards groaned under the sole of Blake’s foot. Weiss’ head whipped around at the noise. She gripped the scroll even tighter, yanking it behind her back and trying to smooth her features as quickly as she could.

“When did you get here?” She snapped, immediately on the offensive.

“Just now,” Blake lied easily. She continued forward, crossing the room and peeling off the vest as she went. Folding it neatly over one arm, she tucked the garment into her designated drawer and pulled out her towel, slinging it around her neck and holding onto the ends, “Where are the others?”

Weiss seemed to relax somewhat, the suspicion draining from her eyes, though her stance remained guarded, “Ruby forgot her scroll in one of the classrooms, so she and Yang went to find it.”

Blake gave a hum of understanding. She started towards the bathroom, but stopped when Weiss asked, “Will your old guardian be visiting next week?”

Hands clenching around the towel, Blake grated out, “No. She and I are rarely in contact these days.”

“But you two were close once.” The statement was tinged with the lilt of a question.

“As close as you are with your father,” Blake deadpanned without looking back, “It was more of a business arrangement than anything else. It suited both of us.”

Quiet from the other side of the room, and then, “Ah. Yes. I understand.” 

At that, Blake peered over her shoulder. Weiss stood there, watching her, clutching the scroll like a ward against evil. She searched that pale blue gaze for an edge of malice, but found only sympathy, though layered beneath levels of armor, the years of self-protection gathered up into a shield, “It’s a shame about your dad, though. Sometimes,” she swallowed thickly and turned back around, “sometimes they hurt us without even trying.”

Weiss laughed bitterly, a short bark that lingered in the room like a metallic tang on the tongue, “On that we can most definitely agree.”

Another noncommittal hum from Blake, and then she shut the bathroom door, leaving Weiss alone in the bedroom once more as she went to take a shower, to scrape the layers of dried sweat and grime from her skin until she emerged, steaming, rosy from the too-hot water, yet feeling only marginally cleaner.

 

—-

 

The rest of the week dragged on as preparations were made for the convocation, students picked by professors at random to help scour rooms and move chairs, scrolls pinging so often with RSVPs that everyone was required to have them muted during class. Blake had been commandeered to replace the Dust charges in several chandeliers, nose and mouth irritated by the bitter scent of freshly polished brass until she was allowed to climb back down and join everyone else at lunch. With two days left before the first airship arrived full of eager families, she was exhausted, a bone-deep lethargy that she simply hadn’t been able to shake.

Everything — the planning, the excitement — had driven a schism into their team. Yang and Ruby’s excitement grew with every passing moment, their elation simmering beneath the surface, giving a bob to their step, an alacrity to their speech. From the sound of it, their father walked on water. The more animated the two sisters became, the more sullen and recalcitrant Weiss and Blake grew, the divide in the room solidifying into a palpable mass constricting the air, until Weiss’ teeth-grinding, an audible point below her jaw, was a constant strum in the background, and Blake wondered silently to herself if her fists would ever be able to unclench. She knew it was unfair to curse their happiness, but every word felt like thorns driven under her skin.

The tension came to a head when Blake made a particularly harsh comment about Weiss’ father, having carried the argument out of the classroom after Oobleck began an open floor discussion on the uses of Dust in wartime, the leaps and bounds of technology that had seen bloody, horrific damage done to the Faunus of Menagerie in the most recent conflict. The heiress knew all the dry details, battlefields and tactics, but seemed to have no grasp of the social strife that drove humanity to make better weapons for sake of gutting a revolution. Even with Cinder’s scathing rebukes about rebels ringing in her head, Blake couldn’t find the will to hold her tongue, not when Weiss sounded so proud of her family’s accomplishments.

“Your father makes his Lien drenched in blood, but it’s being on the cutting edge that matters to you.” Blake growled, barely taking notice of Ruby and Yang falling in step behind them. “Does that equipment inspection he’s going to include the Faunus backs he’s breaking in two?”

“You  _were_  listening to me that night. I knew it!” Weiss hissed, mouth twisting into a sneer. “At least your parents are buried and can’t disappoint you.”

Blake stopped short in the hall, earning a yelp from Yang who had to stumble to keep from slamming right into her back. There was still one more class left in the day, on huntsmanship or some nonsense, but she simply didn’t care. Cinder hadn’t put her here to earn top marks, to wear the badge of a huntress, but if she strangled Weiss, there would be a whole other sort of reckoning. Turning on her heel, Blake slipped past Ruby, ducking under the blade of Crescent Rose before storming towards the library. It would be quiet there, and in the depths of the stacks, no one would come looking for her until the curfew chimes rang.

Blake refused to speak to Weiss even when she was driven back to the dorms, the cold shoulder returned in full by the heiress. Yang and Ruby strove to get the two to reconcile the day after — Ruby wheedling Weiss on one end, while on the other Yang tried arranging moments for the two to  _coincidentally_  be left alone in the same place. At lunch, Yang had some urgent business that required Ruby’s attention for some flimsy reason or another, leaving Weiss and Blake at the table glaring at one another until Weiss slammed her fork down and left with her plate still only half-finished. Yang tried again after dinner, physically hauling Ruby out of their room; Blake had simply hid behind the book she had been reading, refusing to meet the other girl’s gaze while Weiss tapped away at her scroll, reorganizing the notes she had taken during classes earlier in the week.

By the next morning, Beacon was a hive of activity, droning with anticipation, students flitting about, teachers buzzing anxiously, ordering ties and ribbons to be straightened here and last minute arrangements of massive flower bouquets to be placed there. Goodwitch oversaw the whole operation, an almost omnipotent presence herding flocks of students about and setting tasks for staff members. Ozpin slurped at his bottomless mug of tepid coffee beside her, surveying his little kingdom with the same perennially bored expression, eyes half-lidded behind his spectacles, grimacing as first-years got underfoot.

Thankfully, Yang had given up on mending fences, too occupied by the thought of the impending visit. She and Ruby had awoken with a bounce, flinging their blankets aside and landing on the floor with a resounding crash. The pair had scrambled for the bathroom, except this time they finished their morning routine with a speed previously unknown. No sooner had Weiss and Blake started changing out of their pajamas than the sisters were at the door, checking their scrolls for the time, eagerly hurrying the other two along.

“There’s not anything for us to do, you dolts.” Weiss was fussing with her ponytail, the tie she normally used getting tangled. “Attendance isn’t even required.”

“You can still hang out with us.” Ruby insisted. “Dad’s a great guy. You know way more about the school’s history than I do and you can tell him when we’re giving the tour.”

“He’ll get a kick out of your weapon too, Blake.” Yang gestured to Gambol Shroud, already bound to her back. Blake toyed absentmindedly with the ribbon, wondering what the blonde would say if she told her it had been forged to kill other people and not Grimm. “That thing’s crazy.”

Weiss sighed. “I suppose saying hello isn’t out of the question. I was going to check if—” there was a second’s hesitation,“I was going to check on something anyway.”

Blake’s intention to stew in the library had been waylaid by the announcement that that Oobleck was going to be giving a personal tour of its shelves, raving about the rare tomes that Beacon had collected over the years. If Weiss was going to attend anyway, reluctant or not, she would have to do the same. The lie had gotten easier with rehearsing — a guardian, distant but kind — and with enough preparation, surely she could make it through whatever inane questions were asked throughout the day. The memories of her parents had been disgraced long before this school; there was little else to be done to them.

“Lead the way,” she said, feigning a smile.

 

—-

 

The first airship landed, a whirr of jets searing downwards, blasting the air all around, then lightly tapping the ground. Both doors opened with a whoosh and passengers started filing out, some with their arms laden with bags — things their children had forgotten at home, books, clothes, and even gifts of food to tide their kids over during their stay at school. Yang and Ruby bobbed on the tips of their toes, peering over the swarm of students and parents — some already reunited and exchanging hugs. Yang caught sight of her father first, gave a great whoop of excitement and rushed forward, flinging her arms around a tall man in a charcoal grey suit. He returned the hug, using the momentum to swing her around before placing her heavily down on the pavement.

“I hate to say it, but you might be getting too big for me to keep doing that,” he said, but he grinned at her nonetheless.

She was almost of a height with him, chin tilting up slightly to meet his warm gaze. There was a blur of red rose petals, and Yang barely managed to get out of the way as Ruby zipped into the fray, arms latching onto him like fetters low around his waist. He ruffled her hair affectionately, then laid a kiss on the top of her head. When she pulled away, she beamed up at him, reluctant to let him go but aware of the two teammates standing behind them.

“Dad, this is my partner. Weiss Schnee,” she held out her arm, gesturing to Weiss, who came forward.

Weiss’ step was elegant as the white tumble of her hair, but her voice was crisp, stiff, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” The words sounded rehearsed, as though she were far too used to being introduced to faceless business partners and world leaders and men of worth, all of whom viewed her as but a tool, an extension of her father’s will.

He took her hand, the warmth in his smile wholly genuine, “ _Sir_?” he looked at Ruby and whispered, “Oh, I like her.”

“This is Blake, Dad. Uh, Belladonna.” Yang said her name with open, earnest pride. “She’s my partner.”

When one tanned, calloused hand was extended her way, Blake took it and squeezed, her thumb briefly making contact with the scars across his knuckles. There was too much energy in the handshake — her arm was stiff, barely responsive — as she recognized the man standing behind him, carrying a scythe with a blade even larger than Ruby’s. She knew his face from some of Cinder’s scroll videos, reams of information across the screen, had heard his name spat out like venom: Qrow. There was no mistaking him for anyone else, not with that weapon and his asymmetrical shock of black hair. Why was he  _here_?

“Nice to meet you, Blake.” Clearly Ruby and Yang had inherited that perpetual smiling from their father, the gesture followed by a tilt of the head. “This is my brother, Qrow. He hopped ship with me to see what kind of trouble these two had gotten up to.”

“And Ozpin has been pinging my scroll so often it’s buzzed off the stand.” The older man muttered, a shrug of his shoulders tilting the scythe. “Dust forbid I ever actually take a vacation day.”

Blake yanked her hand back, feeling a dull ache beneath her right sleeve. The skin underneath itched and prickled as she tried to school her features into something resembling calm, her thoughts running off in a hundred different directions. Did Ozpin suspect something? Did Qrow? 

“And where,” Yang and Ruby’s dad scanned over the heads of the crowd before turning back to look between Weiss and Blake, “are your parents?”

Yang and Ruby stood in the background making furious slicing motions at their necks, trying to wave him down. Qrow noticed, one dark eyebrow rising in curiosity, but their dad did not. Instead he continued, “Are they on the ship behind us? We could wait, and then head off for the tour together, if you’d like — I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

“Dead,” Blake replied curtly.

“I — Oh.” he rubbed the back of his neck and wilted before her unwavering amber gaze, “Oh, I’m — I’m very sorry.”

Yang had come by her apologetic nature honestly then, carrying her father’s torch. Of course he had to be a good man; apples never fell far from the tree. Blake averted her eyes, praying that was the end of the topic at hand. The crush of the crowd around her was starting to feel more claustrophobic by the second.

He swung his attention to Weiss, looking hopeful for a more positive response, “And what about—?” he began.

Arms crossed, Weiss’ eyes flicked over the throng, searching for a familiar face. Her mouth tightened, lips thinning into a line, “My father is a very busy man,” she interrupted before he could finish his question, tone clipped, gaze flinty. Yet somehow she managed to retain the veneer of the polite hostess, projecting etiquette from crown to toe, “I’m afraid he won’t be attending. He sends his warmest regards.”

She turned, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. I’m sure Yang and Ruby will be able to give you the grand tour without my assistance.” With a nod to both their dad and Qrow, Weiss strode away, her gait poised yet brittle.

“But—!” Ruby began, staring morosely after her partner.

“At least Blake will—” Yang turned, only to find that Blake’s form flickered and vanished in a wisp of dark smoke: a clone conjured to ward off prying eyes and allow her to slip away without a trace.

The crowd was beginning to thin; they were among the last of the groups loitering before the next airship landed.

“Well,” their dad said, draping one arm around each daughter and smiling fondly down at them, “I for one think they’re lovely!”

 

—-

 

_The briefcase glinted, expensive, a matte wink of tawny leather and polished brass fittings. It clinked as it was set down. Full of what, Blake didn’t know, but the bag must have been worth something on its own. There was a man at the market three streets over that bought any baubles she ‘happened’ to come across, including wallets and watches; surely he would take a briefcase too, give her enough to buy dinner. A bowl of hot soup from one of the nearby stalls, maybe, with all the toppings and spices she could swipe dumped into the broth._

_Blake’s mouth watered just at the thought. Breakfast had been a wash after a cop had kicked her out of the alley where she was sleeping; partly because he threatened to arrest her for loitering, and partly because his cheap black shoes had crushed the travel packet of cereal she’d saved underfoot._

_The White Fang took care of its own, but only when those members were useful. Blake had fallen into their care six years ago when her parents died, trampled underfoot in a riot. She hardly remembered them. Even as a child they had always been distant, more involved with their causes than their only daughter, until the years of perennial absence wore away at her, salt spray against seaside cliffs. They had been tall, her body just a sliver in their shadow; the clearest memory of them was on a warm summer morning. They were leaving for the demonstration that they had been preparing for months. Standing in the doorway, dark figures haloed in light, silhouettes with shimmering outlines like motes of dust caught in sunlight. And then they were gone._

_There was little use for a six year old in the White Fang, who in later years grew into a gawky young girl, all limb and no curve. If she received food and shelter from them, she was lucky, but those instances were so few and far between that she had long since given up hope of relying upon them for any sort of real support. Better to try her hand at slipping trinkets and Lien from the coat pockets of heedless tourists._

_Looking left and right, she waited in the shadow of a nearby stall. The vendor had yet to see her, as had any of the street’s inhabitants. People streamed by without a second glance, eyes glazing over the slight, motionless figure crouched to one side, watching. Her gaze glinted gold; she blinked slowly. The man in the white coat who owned the briefcase was engaged in animated conversation with the shopowner across the narrow cobbled street, her soon-to-be prize sitting at his ankles._

_Finding a gap in the crowd, Blake crept forward, flowing with flux of traffic. The man was leaning on his cane, legs crossed idly. Stealing from him would be simple. She would be lost in the crowd before he knew what had happened._

_She snatched the bag up and darted away. No sooner had she taken two steps, however, than an outraged cry met her ears and she felt a tug on the collar of her ragged clothes. The man turned her around gruffly, lifted her up by the scruff of her neck, his face looming into view._

_“Little Faunus brat!” he spat, and gave a shake for good measure._

_Heart pounding furiously in her chest, she felt that cold sinking feeling in her stomach again. Small shivers swept through her body, washing her skin with rivulets of ice. Shadows peeled off her limbs in tendrils like smoke, blurring her form._

_“What the—?” the man started, only to give a great howl of rage and pain when Blake bit down hard on his hand. He dropped her, bent over double, clutching the bloody puncture marks on the meaty slab between knuckle and wrist, and Blake swung the briefcase around with both hands, a mighty heave, clocking him over the head and sending his bowler hat flying._

_Blake took off at a sprint, dashing through the tall crowd, scampering like a doe through trees, her tattered leather shoes slipping and scrambling when she rounded the corner, exiting the market alley and emerging onto the main street that ran through town. She came to a skidding halt, almost crashing into a woman in a clinging red gown. Sharp, arresting eyes flared to life and burned into her, rooting Blake to the spot. It was only a fleeting moment, but that was all it took._

_“Get back here!” came the roar as the man she had robbed swerved around the corner, only to freeze when he saw the woman in red._

_The shadows whipped to a frenzy, responding to her accelerated heartrate, to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Blake turned to run, but two hands clamped down on her shoulders, digging in painfully and drawing a yelp from her lips._

_The woman spoke then, her voice a low drawl, like the rasp of silk over a knife’s edge, “How curious.”_

_“Cinder,” the man started forward, the once perfect swoop of his hair disheveled, a bruise starting to form over his left eye and cheek, “I can explain. This rat stole my briefcase, and —”_

_Cinder paid him no heed, the fulcrum of her focus cowering in her grasp. She knelt down, hands still holding the girl in place, and the force of her gaze was a wild forest-fire, searing, “What’s your name, child?”_

_Blake’s eyes darted about. She clutched the briefcase to her chest and stammered, “B-Blake.”_

_“And you managed to steal from my employee, Blake?” the woman asked._

_Blake started trembling violently, hot tears pricking at her eyes. She didn’t answer. Instead she bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze._

_Fingers trailed up her neck, tilted her chin up, “Look at me,” the woman ordered, sweltry. When Blake finally did so, Cinder smiled with lips full enough to conceal fangs, “Come,” she said, rising to her feet and guiding Blake to the sleek black car parked nearby._

_“What are you —?” the man began, but he stopped dead in his tracks when Cinder shot a dangerous look in his direction._

_“Finish the job, Roman,” she hissed, “You can take a cab back.” A chauffeur leapt from the driver’s seat to open the back door at her approach. She nudged Blake inside, then shot over her shoulder at Roman, “And try not to get robbed again.”_

_The chauffeur closed the door behind her with a click, then rounded the car to lurch into the driver’s seat once more. The car growled to life and drifted off from the curb. Blake huddled as close to the opposite door as possible, legs curled up on the plush leather seats, hands locked around her knees. The briefcase sat, forgotten, on the floor._

_“Come here, sweetling,” Cinder murmured. She put her arm around Blake’s shoulders and pulled her close._

_Blake jumped. Her ears pinned down to her skull instinctively, but Cinder’s arm just drew her in further. One hand, fingers tipped with wickedly red nails like talons, came up and gently stroked at the flattened ears, soothing. It was the first time Blake could ever remember someone touching her like that, soft and caring, slowing the rapid firing of her heart. Slowly she felt herself lean into Cinder’s side, their flanks melting together. The woman smelled like woodsmoke on a rainy day, a warm clean scent, heady and intoxicating._

_That hand continued to stroke and pet and lightly scratch until Blake was all but curled up in her lap and the car was filled with the liquid rumble of purring._

_“You haven’t any family.”_

_It was not a question. Still Blake shook her head in response, burying her face into Cinder’s lap in the process._

_Cinder’s fingers dug into Blake’s hair, massaging her scalp, “You do now.”_

 

—-

 

She didn’t know why she was lured to the cool waters of the pond; there was something calming about staring into its depths, watching the invisible hand of the wind send ripples over the surface. Blake had planned to sit on the closest bench there, forgetting the way her blood nervously quickened in her veins, but it was already occupied. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of pure white hair, the distinctive jewelry atop an offset ponytail. There was no escaping the heiress, it seemed, but Blake didn’t want to slink away elsewhere; the amount of quiet on the campus was extremely limited.

Weiss didn’t look up until she sat down on the opposite edge of the bench, shoulders going rigid with what she thought was anger until Blake saw tears swelling in the corner of bright blue eyes, quickly wiped away by one decorated sleeve. She averted her own gaze in an instant, teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep from growling something bitter.

“What do you want?” There was an accusation in Weiss’ tone, but it didn’t hold even half the fire from earlier.

“I was just trying to find somewhere away from everyone else.” Blake said, watching as a lilypad began to drift towards the edge of the pond.

Weiss sniffled before clearing her throat. “So was I.”

Blake tensed, caught between the urge to vanish in a flare of shadow and light and staying still as a statue, waiting until Weiss tired of her presence and stormed away. Either would have been easier than talking, than the dark voice in her head whispering for her to shift closer. Her chest hurt like she had run for miles, only able just now to stop and breathe.

“Did you find your father?” The question sounded stilted, even to her own ears.

“No, he—” Weiss shook her head. “There just wasn’t enough time.”

It was a lie. Blake had heard the message left, the math simple enough to compute in her head; if Weiss’ father had any real desire to attend, it would have been simple to do so. Not like Yang and Ruby’s father, not like Qrow — how had she not known the man was their uncle — who appeared to have dropped everything to come to Beacon, even just for a matter of hours. She started to fuss at the ribbon around one wrist; a coil had come loose in her mad dash away from the crowd.

“I—” Weiss began, silence reigning a moment longer before the rest of the words came. “What I said to you a couple of days ago. It was uncalled for.”

Blake froze before slowly turning her head to look at the heiress. There were no hints of subterfuge, nothing but the red-rimmed fatigue in Weiss’ eyes like the spray of blood caught underneath ice. Myrtenaster lay sedately on the girl’s left side, neither hand lingering near the hilt of the blade. A threat she could handle; an apology, no matter how shrouded, wasn’t something she’d planned on from Weiss.

“As was blaming you for your father’s choices.” Blake finally said. “Or his absence.”

Weiss nodded, accepting the words in kind. “I can’t imagine what I would do if I lost him. After my mother—”

The rest of the sentence wasn’t forthcoming. Blake didn’t press the matter, occupied with the gnawing void in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t hunger but absent memory, trying to discern how long it had been since she had tried to paint the lines of her mother’s face inside her mind. She had no photographs, not even the worn wanted poster she had carried around for weeks after her death; the paper eventually crumbled into pieces from too much folding, the ink worn away by the heat and sweat inside her pocket. Recall failed even more when it came to her father — his hair was black, eyes that telling amber — but the details never fused into a solid image.

Cinder, who she called Mother now, had scorched away every claim to her past: the White Fang, the very blood that ran through her veins, rebellious and wild. No prompt was needed to know that cedar perfume on her tongue, the runes of fire she could trace as easily as the lines in her own palm. Gambol Shroud’s ribbon would break before Cinder’s hold ever did, the older woman’s sigil etched plainly in the black flames along either side of her tights, every inch of flesh claimed twice over. It was better than being no one at all, Blake supposed, another Faunus child left to go feral on the streets.

“What were they like?” Weiss asked suddenly, a faint rasp still audible in the heiress’ voice from the hastily stifled tears.

“My parents?” Blake’s fingers laced together in her lap as she considered an answer; it was the only way to keep them from running rampant over her sleeve. “Busy. They were very…political. Protesting, making signs, going on hunger strikes. We were never alone.”

_They wanted your father’s company reduced to a smoking crater_  was what she wanted to say, but Cinder had made it clear before she came to Beacon; Faunus weren’t trusted, and she needed to be above reproach. At least the bow made concealment simple. If she had been born with a tail—Blake frowned, cutting off the thought before it finished.

“This school is the first time I’ve ever been anywhere without a bodyguard,” Weiss mused, “but instead, I share a room with three other girls. I’m starting to think solitude is a myth.”

Blake managed a weak smile. “There’s always the shower.”

“I never hear the end of it if I stay in there for more than ten minutes.” Weiss huffed. “It’s not like they have to pay for the water.”

Blake’s ears flickered beneath the bow; a group was approaching from somewhere, their empty chatter building in volume. When a shout and mixed cheers tore through the air, Weiss flinched, wiping her eyes once more before standing up and brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt. It was elegant and singularly impractical, although Blake had to admit that factor didn’t seem to stop the other girl from delving straight into a fight. A huntress-to-be dressed like a fairytale princess, and just like a princess, valued only for her title, the ability to inherit and move across the board like a chesspiece. Blake swallowed, wondering why the inside of her mouth tasted like metal.

“We should go.” Weiss said softly. “If Ruby and Yang are in that bunch, they won’t let us slip away twice.”

“I’m…going to get something to eat.” Blake got to her feet, weighing the next words in her mind for a long moment. “You can come with if you want.”

Weiss’ façade had taken too many recent blows to entirely conceal her surprise. “Sure. Better that than having to dodge  _two_  scythes.”

Blake couldn’t find herself agreeing more, even if she knew it was for entirely different reasons. She gestured towards the path leading to the cafeteria before starting to walk, ensuring her hands were kept at her sides. If Qrow knew, if Ozpin was watching her, then there was nothing else she could do was wait for one of them to act. Cinder wouldn’t have her plans so easily compromised and that truth was the only thing keeping fear from slipping around her throat like a noose and pulling tight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: If it hasn’t been heavily implied enough in previous chapters, here’s a standing warning that the rest of the story will contain scenes with physical and emotional abuse. Cinder is a piece of work.

_I want everything Ozpin has recorded about Qrow. Break into his office and find it. Report to me as soon as you do._

The message was simple, lingering on her scroll for a matter of seconds before deleting itself. Blake hadn’t expected anything less when she’d messaged Cinder about the convocation, but infiltrations took time, and there were plenty of reasons that a full blueprint of Beacon wasn’t easy to come by. While Ozpin often leaned towards the apathetic, she knew the same likely couldn’t be said for the headmaster’s security, and being caught would be a crushing blow to her credibility.

Her full set of tools were in Cinder’s care — Dust detectors, enchanted coils that could be edged underneath a doorframe to silence a room, and any other number of trinkets she’d used to break into wherever she was sent — leaving her with little more than Gambol Shroud and her own senses to see the job done.

Blake set a scheduled routine, staggering the times so that her disappearances would not seem too regular or out of place. She stalked the corridors, blending in seamlessly with the other students in her school uniform, the bow stifling around her ears. Ozpin’s office was conveniently located on the way to the library, a massive side-corridor that bustled with students on their way to and from classes, traveling to the nearby library or to the far cafeteria, while up ahead the vaulted ceiling soared.

Goodwitch’s office was situated two corridors down, but somehow she managed to occupy Ozpin’s office just as much as the headmaster himself. Black heels clicked diligently, step crisp, at her approach and echoed in the tall hallways even after she had departed, cloak a flare of majestic purple over her shoulders. At all times it seemed she carried a stack of paperwork with her, officious looking spectacles glinting over the documents tucked under her arm, pages marked with yellow tabs for Ozpin to sign and initial. Those glass-green eyes roamed the faces of students passing by, sharp, calculating and perceptive. The woman was an omnipresent wasp, combing over the nest, sleepless.

In contrast, Ozpin never seemed to use his time for work. He spent most of his hours looming over his desk and glaring over his mug at the pages Goodwitch set before him, mouth twisted to one side sourly as he snatched up the nearest pen and scrawled his name in great loops where she had marked. Blake once spied him absorbed in his scroll, but when he set it down on his desk — leaving it behind to get himself another cup of coffee — she saw that it was a brightly colored game.

He tended to slip away from his office as early as allowed: fifteen minutes before the clock struck five in the evening, a bell ushering the students in for dinner. He also took inordinately long lunch breaks, lingering over his plate of food for as long as possible before Glynda could find him hunched in the corner of the staff lounge and hustle him from the premises.

Yet after days of reconnaissance Blake never could pin down where exactly Ozpin kept his scroll after hours. With Glynda’s watchful eye ever-present, there was no best time to infiltrate the office, only short opportune moments. She would just have to be quick and quiet: get in, get the information, and get out.

Digging into her pocket, Blake pulled out a small compact mirror and flicked it open. Dust and darkness crowded around her; the ventilation shaft she sat in shone slats of light through a metal grate at her head. She reached over and angled the mirror so she could see down into the office. Ozpin’s black leather chair was empty, his desk scattered with various documents and paperweights. A potted plant withered on the windowsill from overexposure to sunlight, leaves and stalk shrivelled into brown husks. Goodwitch replaced them every other week, but Ozpin had yet to show them any semblance of care.

Blake peeled back the grate carefully and, pocketing the mirror once more, dropped down into the room below, a noiseless fall onto all fours. Rising into a crouch, she tore open drawers and tapped at the underside of the writing desk for secret compartments, ears pricked for the slightest ring of hollowness in the wood. She searched frantically for the scroll, even pushing aside the plant’s drooping leaves to peer into the generic terracotta pot, and pulling books away from the shelves to search behind them. All she needed was to find it, rip the data, and she could leave; it shouldn’t take longer than—

“Ms. Belladonna?”

Blake’s hand stiffened around the brass pull of a drawer at the voice, easing her fingers away from it as carefully as she could. With her heart hammering in her chest, it was only by biting her tongue, the taste of blood rousing her from the clutch of fear, that she managed to force her expression into something resembling mild surprise before turning around to confirm who had spoken.

Goodwitch had her arms crossed, the slender line of the older woman’s riding crop sticking out as sharply as a blade as she stood in the doorway, imposing presence more than enough to fill the threshold. Blake fought the instinct to draw Gambol Shroud in turn; being unarmed, pretending to be helpless, had never been in her nature. She was just supposed to be another student, without malice or knowledge of the greater plots turning their wheels outside of Beacon’s walls.

“Professor Goodwitch.” Blake respectfully averted her eyes, dropping her head a little. “Did you need something?”

One blonde brow was raised. “That’s what I was about to ask you. The headmaster’s office is not meant for students to wander around in.”

“I was waiting to speak to Ozpin—the headmaster.” Blake quickly added. She wasn’t used to giving his title any credence. “The door was already open, so I thought I’d wait for him to come back.”

It was a lie and a poor one at that, but Goodwitch’s frown was more long-suffering than hostile. “His propensity for forgetting to lock his office aside, Ms. Belladonna, there’s only about ten minutes left until curfew. He won’t be back from the far tower until a much later hour, I’m afraid.”

Blake nodded, hoping her relief wasn’t too plain. “I’ll find another time to come back, then. It’s…not that important.”

Ducking her head even lower, she made to leave the room, hoping Goodwitch would step out of the way. An excuse about finding Ozpin’s scattered collection of books to be of interest was at the tip of Blake’s tongue, in case she was asked why she had been skulking around near the desk, but instead there was a very light tap against her shoulder, drawing her gaze upward. Goodwitch’s mouth was tensed in a moue of concern, hand immediately dropping the moment they made eye contact.

“I know there are some special circumstances surrounding your enrollment here, Blake,” Goodwitch began, still retaining her officious air, yet culling it with patience, “That you may have had to do things independently for a long time. If there’s anything you feel you need to discuss, my office is open as well, even after hours.”

Blake felt her ears twitch beneath the bow, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked for the catch hidden in the older woman’s words. There wasn’t anything she could share with Goodwitch, nothing to be offered other than the lies that had already been prepared. Yet there didn’t seem to be any suspicion behind the statements, seeking a confession or proof of guilt. She didn’t know what to make of it at all.

“Thanks,” Blake said, managing a small smile, “I appreciate it.”

Goodwitch gave a curt nod and stepped out of the way, likely intending to lock the door from the inside. Unless the entire mechanism was switched out, Blake knew she could crack it if necessary, and took a deep breath before walking out into the hall. She waited to hear footsteps behind her, for Goodwitch to put the pieces together and give chase, but there was no threat even as Blake reached the staircase to the dorms, nothing but the knowledge that she had failed and barely escaped.

—

“I told Ruby we have to try it again some day.” Yang grinned, fork twirled around some sort of pasta that was absolutely slathered with sauce. “There has to be some way to combine our semblances in a fight that looks cool without, you know, setting off smoke alarms.”

“The yard smelled like burnt petals for a week.” Ruby mumbled, clearly disappointed by the memory. “At least Dad didn’t ground us.”

Blake was surprised to see Weiss’ mouth quirk in a smile, even if it was immediately concealed by another bite of feta and tomato. Despite the habitual bickering that had a habit of flaring in their dorm, the heiress had lost some of her sharper edges since the convocation, or at least became better at holding back the initial instinct to critique. They were speaking again as teammates, in classes and at meals, although the conversation at the pond was never mentioned even in passing. At least she wouldn’t have to tell Cinder she’d estranged herself from her primary target on top of mangling the theft.

She grimaced when her scroll buzzed, the compact device trembling near one side of her plate. Holding down the yellow diamond, Blake tilted the screen away from Weiss’ view as it popped open, unsure of what the content of the message would be. Sneaking away from dinner only to find out that Jaune had been forwarding chain texts again would be unduly irritating, not to mention it could attract attention. Her gamble failed the moment she saw the sender had no picture attached, the text short and immediately to the point.

_The tree from before. An hour after curfew._

Blake swallowed roughly before the message disappeared, pressing against either side of the scroll to shrink it again. There was still half a sandwich left on her plate; she’d indulged at the counter when she saw fresh tuna, packing the bread with lettuce and olive oil, but her stomach roiled at the sight of it now. She picked the sandwich up gingerly, knowing the energy would help with the run later, and fought a grimace when she took too large of a bite and had to hastily swallow it down with the help of some water.

“Did you want to go over the notes from the history test after dinner?” Weiss asked.

Blake glanced to her left at the other girl, confirming she had been the one spoken to. “Sure. I’m kind of tired, though. Probably going to bed early.”

“That’s because we kicked ass today, partner.” Yang’s knuckles rapped against the table. “Knocked out our targets in ten seconds flat.”

Blake nodded in agreement before tearing off another piece of the sandwich and shoving it in her mouth. Professor Port had devoted his class to an exercise earlier, focusing on situational awareness. A large circle of dummies had taken up the main floor, with a pair of hunters-to-be placed in the very center with their backs to one another. The directive was to destroy their partner’s half of the dummies without ever facing each other or making eye contact, forced to rely on verbal commands and their surroundings to accomplish their task as quickly as possible.

Blake had seen through the ruse immediately, hooking her arms with Yang’s and spinning them around to face the opposite way before drawing Gambol Shroud and tearing through the blonde’s half of the targets. Yang caught on with a cheerful shout, leaving nothing but scorched wooden stumps behind after a hail of burning bullets. They had gone last, but they were the fastest in the class.

“Professor Port didn’t say we could just switch positions,” Weiss grumbled. She and Ruby had earned second place with fifteen seconds, having managed a fair amount of impressive blind fire with an awkward angle over each other’s shoulders. “ _That_  would have been easy.”

“You let yourself be hamstrung by rules that weren’t there.” Blake said, shrugging. “In an actual fight, no one’s going to play clean.”

Weiss frowned, although her stare lingered a moment too long. “Well, I know that.”

“Sounds like Blake here got into some of the real rough-and-tumble before Beacon.” Yang let out a chuckle when Blake’s jaw tensed. “It’s alright, me too. Unless a cop actually puts you in a cell, it’s not like anyone knows, right?”

“Yang.” Ruby’s eyes widened a little. “I thought you told Dad.”

“About the…speeding tickets.” Yang’s eyes dropped to her plate, all attention returning to devouring what was left of the pasta, muttering a word that resembled ‘warrant’ into a massive bite.

Weiss rolled her eyes after Ruby’s brows pinched tightly together, but thankfully that was the end of that topic. Blake felt a touch of nausea when she bit down into the crust of her sandwich, finally relenting and putting the rest back down. There wasn’t any point in making herself sick, especially with old memories of the police threatening to swim up to the surface. She stood up with her tray, glancing up at the clock hanging over the cafeteria doors. Maybe if she went upstairs and feigned sleep, the others would follow suit quickly.

“Can we go over those notes in the morning, Weiss?” Blake asked, looking back at the other girl. “I’m exhausted.”

There was that same long stare, the meaning of it impenetrable in those bright blue eyes. “Of course. Go rest.”

Blake offered what she hoped read as a grateful smile before going to dispose of her dishes. She was tired, having spent too many days lurking in odd corners and vents to try and get ahold of Ozpin’s scroll, but rest would have to wait until she made her report. Her shoulders started to slump as she reached the top of the stairs, a shake of her head doing little to dispel the fatigue. Before she could think better of it, Blake pulled her scroll back out again, setting an alarm in case she actually did fall asleep. Cinder would skin her alive if she missed a meeting.

Rather than changing once she got to the room, Blake simply slipped her pajama top over her clothes and slipped into bed, pulling up the comforter past the hem. Gambol Shroud was easily concealed in the bunched up fabric by her feet; it was only a matter of waiting until she could sneak back out, turning on one side so it wouldn’t be obvious her eyes were still half-open.

The other three entered the room some time later, the door crashing open with a bang as Yang bounded inside. She didn’t get very far before Weiss shushed her and pointed at the huddle in the blankets that was Blake. Any noise that followed was stifled with chagrin, her teammates walking on eggshells as they got ready for bed. Blake schooled her features, kept her eyes shut, and tried making her breaths as slow and even as possible. After tugging on her pajamas, Yang clambered into bed, pulling herself atop the bunk bed so that the pillars shook, books creaking precariously. Ruby flicked a light on under her blanket, muting the glare to a pale glow, her silhouette turning pages of a textbook. It seemed like an age later that the light finally clicked off, plunging the room into darkness.

Still Blake waited. Yang turned over, the mattress groaning. Blake didn’t need to check her scroll to know that an hour after curfew was fast approaching. She would have to leave, and soon. Ears giving an experimental tilt beneath the bow, listening for any change in breathing patterns, she pulled the duvet down and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She shrugged out of her pajama top and shucked it aside, but no sooner had she stood than another voice filled the void.

“Where are you going?” Weiss whispered. Her face was obscured by shadows, but Blake could make out the fine-boned planes of her face, the high cheeks and tapered chin.

Blake cast about for an excuse, finally landing on, “I can’t sleep. I was going to sneak out for a run. Just to clear my head. Get some air.”

Weiss half-sat in bed, sheet falling to pool around her waist. Her loose hair curled lightly at her collarbones, gently touching the bare skin there, “Goodwitch patrols the corridors like a hawk. I swear the woman never sleeps.”

“I’ll be fine,” Blake tried to reason, but even to her own ears she sounded suspect. She needed to leave now. She needed to leave five minutes ago, “Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Weiss scoffed with a haughty toss of her head, sending snowy locks tumbling and glinting, catching an unbound beam of moonlight on their strands, “You’re my teammate. Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Blake murmured. Her eyes slanted askance as Yang shifted in bed again, smacking her lips. Soft snores rumbled throughout the room. Weiss rolled her eyes, but where Ruby would have thrown a pillow at her sister’s head, Weiss settled for mild disdain.

“I’ll worry about you as much as I please,” Weiss snapped under her breath, just loud enough for Blake to hear, and without further ado shuffled back under her blankets with a huff, turning back towards the opposite wall.

Stealth was the least of her worries when Blake saw the time on her scroll. She already knew the routes of the night time security by heart, dodging the wide light of the lanterns and curious eyes before she was outside Beacon’s gates again, every breath burning in her lungs as she pushed herself faster towards the edge of Forever Fall. The crimson leaves crunched and slipped under her feet with every step, wet from a touch of rain earlier in the day. Ducking branches and tumbling over roots, the anxiety twisting her heart into pieces eased at the sight of the glowing tree, the halo around it dim and drifting with the haze of an old enchantment.

There was no one waiting for her yet. Blake took a moment to catch her breath, nearly bent in two as bile edged up the back of her throat. She had nothing but bad news to carry with her; perhaps something had held Cinder up long enough to grant a reprieve. Once she could stand up straight again, Blake wiped the sweat from her brow, grateful for the chill of the night time air.

“You’re late.”

Blake started. She whirled around, lowering her gaze so that she stared at where Cinder’s sleek dark heels, like polished obsidian, gouged holes into the porous ground, “Apologies,” she muttered uncertainly, “I was held up by a teammate.”

“Oh?” Blake didn’t have to look up to know the analytical arch of Cinder’s brow, the cross of those arms, fingers perched and drumming; Cinder never liked being kept waiting, “And what of the intel on Qrow?”

“I —” Blake swallowed thickly past an obstruction in her throat, and in the pause she tucked her hair behind her ear, “I was interrupted by Goodwitch and unable to complete my mission.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the mournful cry of an owl in the branches overhead. In the nearby grasses a spider wove a web around its struggling prey, fat belly glistening red and yellow, strung between two nightshade blossoms, while above the conifers hung their weary heads heavy with dusk and starlight.

“How,” Cinder murmured, voice deceptively soft and light, “disappointing.”

Blake shivered. Her chest constricted. She recognized that tone, knew it all too well. She kept her gaze down and her vision began to swim. Her arm itched, an insatiate demand to be scratched until she bled.

She could feel those eyes narrow in on her, “And how goes your pursuit of the Schnee heiress?”

Steadying herself, breaths still short and shallow, Blake answered, “She is warming to me. Slowly. We had a parent’s visit last week,” her gaze darted around the earth at Cinder’s feet, nervous, “Her father couldn’t make it and she was upset. We had a few moments alone together in which she seemed to loosen up around me. I’m sure that in time she’ll start to confide in me.”

“In time,” Cinder repeated, a blunt statement, her words beginning to harden.

“And—” Blake frantically fished for any and all small details she could scrape together at the last minute that could possible assuage Cinder’s mounting fury, “—she is an astute learner. She talks in her sleep some nights. It’s annoying really, but the others just sleep through it. She doesn’t like spicy food,” Blake was babbling now and she knew it, but the words kept coming, falling from her mouth in a rush, “She’s used to being alone. She tries to get away from the rest of the team whenever she can, to gather herself in a moment of quiet. Like—”

_Like me_ _._  The comparison almost spilled forth, but she bit her bottom lip hard enough to feel it sting.

“In other words you know practically nothing,” Cinder sighed. The sound of lacquered clicks, Cinder’s thumb tracing the backs of her nails, a contemplative gesture,  “I don’t take pride in failure. And no child of mine will be less than perfection.”

How many times had Blake heard those words? She had long since lost count. Excellence Cinder demanded, but one person could only do so much. Often Blake wondered to herself when the line would be drawn — when would what she could give not be considered enough, if it ever had been in the first place, “The task can still be done. I will not fail you again.”

“You say that,” Cinder replied, “yet all I hear is that this whole week has been a complete and utter waste of my time.”

Blake looked up, “No, I—”

She choked back the words, gagging on them. She wished she could swallow them whole, pluck them from the air and shove them back down whence they had come, deep into her stomach. Stones formed there now, clacking heavy in her gut. She ducked her head, ears pinning back. The tremors that had started off like fine granules turned coarse, grating from shoulder to the base of her spine.

The temperature dipped, fire flickering in the absence of oxygen. A moment of silence. And then.

“You are mine,” Cinder hissed, and every word grew in volume, “I labored you. I ripped you from the stomach of those animals like a malignance, whispered levels of war in your ear, and made of you my prodigy of ruin.” Flames and twisted bone rode the notes of her voice, a timbre bereft of humanity, purely elemental. She took a step forward and embers smoldered in her wake. She was terrifically beautiful in her wrath, rage a living thing beneath the skin that coiled its slippery colubrine backs and slouched in the blistering sands, her furor a storm shrieking across the crests of desert dunes, peeling layers of stone from abandoned temples. The runes scrawled across her body burned bright, and her gaze was a furnace, frenetic, melting those who stood before her like slag. “And this is how I am repaid? With impudence and defiance?”

Blake took a trembling step back before she could stop herself, before she could temper her fear. Suddenly Cinder was there, one hand on the soft skin of her neck, the other buried in her hair, yanking her head back sharply so that Blake had to look up, her knees threatening to buckle. Those long nails carved wicked tracks across her throat, sharp enough to split skin with enough pressure, scarlet lines blooming, trickling, pooling in the hollows of her collarbone.

She was pulled close, the air thinning, filled with the stench of scalded ozone, scorched hair, iron and flesh a taste upon the tongue. Cinder spoke and her mouth was a crucible, words molten and pitted, “Let me remind you what happened last time you forgot your place.”


	5. Chapter 5

The smell of scorched cotton filled the air. In her sleep Weiss’ nose crinkled in distaste and she awoke with a scowl. Nights like these usually meant Yang was enduring a dream about Dust only knew what. Yet when Weiss was prepared to lob a pillow in Yang’s direction, she saw that the tell-tale tendrils of smoke curling from her sheets were absent.

Blinking blearily, she rubbed at her eyes and her gaze swept the room. Blake’s bed remained empty, comforter cold and bunched up at the base of the mattress. Fumbling for her scroll on the bedside table, Weiss flicked it on to check the time, squinting in the bright light. Just past two in the morning, and the scent of ash grew thick.

Tossing back her blankets, Weiss rose from her bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak underfoot. She retrieved a blue cardigan from atop her dresser and swung it around her shoulders, clutching it together at her sternum and suppressing a shiver that seeped up through her bare feet from the cold wood. Her eyes reflected glassy and doe-like in the moonlight as she peered around the room before making her way to the bathroom. She peeked inside, but it too was empty.

With a frown she started for the door, whispering frantic curses when she stubbed her toe on the end of Blake’s bed. Still muttering coarsely under her breath, she pulled the door open to their room and slowly peered outside, fearful that Goodwitch would be around any corner.

There came a soft sound from one side, the rasp of thready inhalations. Weiss jumped, eyes darting down. A small gasp; the cardigan slipped down her shoulders.

Blake’s face was a mosaic of color, dark red abrasions blurring into a swollen line of violet and blue down one cheek, the other sticky with congealed blood, spilled over from a clearly shattered nose. Five crimson lines with mustard-yellow bruises between them encircled the other girl’s throat, too thin to be the swipe of an Ursa, even if it looked like Blake had spent the entire night wrestling with a Grimm and lost.

The injuries didn’t halt there, various scrapes lining one arm, the sleeve guarding the other damp with the stain of blood or worse, but they were all disappearing by degrees, the swelling fading as Blake’s Aura reacted out of sheer desperation, sealing a split in the other girl’s lip right before Weiss’ eyes.

The stench of old fire that had lured her out of the room, like a handful of matches snuffed out in unison, was coming off Blake’s skin, although Weiss couldn’t see any burns, nothing but lines of dark ash turning shorts and shirt alike into a muddled shade of gray. It was like Blake had run through a forest fire, if such a conflagration could grow fists and beat someone into the ground.

“Blake—” Weiss began.

Amber eyes, dull with pain, suddenly grew wide and alert. Weiss held back a sympathetic wince as Blake tried to withdraw further down the hall, only to stop short and bend nearly in two, letting out an agonized hiss. The shift revealed a cut deep enough had to seep through Blake’s vest, the sharp tear in the fabric practically hidden by the dark splotch of red. It was hard to swallow back her questions, but Blake’s gaze was empty, absent any recognition.

“Let’s get you inside,” Weiss murmured, but when she slowly reached out to place a supporting hand under one arm, Blake’s teeth bared in a flash of red-streaked enamel. Swallowing thickly, Weiss continued, “Goodwitch could come around at any moment. I just want to get you to the bathroom, away from prying eyes. Alright?”

It took a continuous stream of low consolations to coax Blake to her feet. Blake grimaced, hands shooting out to cling on Weiss’ forearms so that she didn’t collapse back to the ground. Shifting her weight, one arm slung across Weiss’ shoulders, she limped into the room, Weiss shutting the door softly behind them with her heel. They shuffled to the bathroom, Blake’s eyes darting nervously to the sleeping forms of Yang and Ruby, until with a soft click the bathroom door was shut and they were alone.

Before Blake could stop her, Weiss flicked on the light, flooding the white-washed walls and painting her wounds an even more garish hue. Blake’s clothes were in tatters, rent with broad gashes underlined by narrow slashes of red and bruises blooming with a mottled palette.

Weiss realized she was staring before she wrenched her gaze away and, clearing her throat, announced, “I’m going to get you a change of clothes.”

She slipped out of the bathroom and padded her way over to the dresser. It opened with a grate of wood, admitting a space just large enough for her hand to sneak through and pull out a pair plain grey sweatpants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t bother closing the drawer as she made her way over the bathroom again. Once there, Weiss steadied herself with a cautionary breath before the door, then reentered.

Blake stood where she had been left, leaning upon the sink, arms wracked with slender tremors in order to keep herself upright. The air held a chill, yet her skin was dotted with cold sweat. She hovered over the porcelain sink, swaying on her feet. Weiss placed the clean clothes atop the toilet seat, then stood beside Blake, hesitant. She pulled the handtowel from where it hung on its ring and pushed up the tap of the sink, emitting a steady stream of water. Soaking the towel, Weiss turned the water off before wringing out the excess.

She turned to Blake and raised both hands, one holding the towel, so that Blake could see them. Golden eyes watched their approach warily. Blake tried hiding a flinch when one of Weiss’ cool hands came in contact with her jaw, gently tilting her chin so that she could daub at her cheek. The towel came away drenched in pink, and Weiss folded it to a fresh side, wiping away the clotted gore with as much tenderness as she could muster. She murmured apologies whenever Blake winced at a particularly sensitive injury.

“So,” Weiss began, wringing the towel out again into the sink, the water running wine-dark, “you’re going to have to talk about it at some point.”

The muscles at Blake’s jaw bunched, the tendons below distending, pale lines straining against the confines of flesh. At the motion the wounds at her neck, once crusted with a thin scabrous layer, ruptured and began to weep freely. Blake made no noise, rather it was Weiss who hissed under her breath and brought the towel down to her neck, dabbing up the blood, the movements like the stipple of a painter’s brush, turpentine stinging and removing unwanted color from the canvas.

Blake’s hands clenched, gripping the porcelain edges of the sink until her knuckles stood out like white stones on the backs of her hands, “There were Grimm—” she started, but Weiss shot her a sharp look that made her mouth snap shut.

For all that her gaze was barbed and questioning, Weiss’ voice came out surprisingly soft, “Don’t lie to me,” she whispered, “Don’t treat me like a fool.”

Blake remained silent, and Weiss draped the towel over the sink, having stemmed the dribbling tide at Blake’s throat in conjunction with Blake’s Aura, which continued to work furiously as Weiss cleaned, slowly knitting up wounds. Weiss reached up for the bow, stiff with congealed blood, blackened. Eyes flashing, Blake’s hands bolted upwards, snatching Weiss’ wrists.

A startled gasp, muted more with surprise than pain, and Weiss looked up at her with a gaze doe-eyed as a maiden in war, a question on her lips. Loosening her grip, Blake bit her bottom lip and relented, fingers lingering momentarily on the warm pulse at Weiss’ wrists before lowering her arms. She dipped her head forward to allow Weiss better access, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable shock, the following righteous storm.

Haltingly Weiss moved her hands to the bow, flinching back slightly when she found it emanating with warmth. Face dawning with realization, she pulled and the ends unraveled. Two violet-lined ears twitched, flicking sideways and back under unfamiliar scrutiny. When there was no vicious tirade, no tempestuous ire, Blake dared to crack one eye open. There Weiss stood, arms raised, hands still poised over Blake’s ears as though holding the gem-encrusted crown over a monarch’s head at a coronation, expression stunned and — dare she think it? — awed. What she said next was perhaps the last thing Blake expected.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked. The bow had long since slipped to the floor in a long fluttering curl, “Wearing the bow all the time, I mean?”

“It—” Blake began. She licked her lips nervously before continuing, “It could be worse. Better to hide them to avoid any unwanted attention.”

“Right. Of course,” Weiss breathed. She looked like she was about to lower her arms, but instead asked, “Can I—? I don’t want to do anything  _untoward_ —” she cast about, but there was genuine fascination there.

“It’s fine. You can touch them, if you want to confirm that they’re real,” Blake allowed.

“Well I know they’re real,” Weiss could not keep the exasperation from her voice in spite of herself, “I just want to touch them because —” she trailed off, uncertain, then finished lamely, “—because I want to.”

Even as she spoke her hands fell, resting atop Blake’s head, a hesitant first contact. The ears drooped at the touch, flattening back, moulding to the shape of Blake’s skull. They quivered there until Weiss stroked with both thumbs, two long simultaneous swipes from the downy bases to silky tufted tips.

A trembling sigh and Blake found herself relaxing into the touch, the slant of her shoulders shifting down until she seemed to hang like a coat by a wire, and the only thing keeping her upright was gentle hands, fingers digging softly into sensitive skin. Memories of similar times, rare though they were, when kindness was shown to her — or if not kindness then it’s close kin; Cinder’s hands wringing secrets and sighs from her like blood from a rag.

“When I was younger I was a member of the White Fang,” Blake said without preamble, her voice low. She didn’t wait to see or hear Weiss’ reaction, though those fingers paused momentarily, continuing to rub when Blake kept talking, “They were never particularly kind to say the least, but they tend to dig their claws in and never let go. I escaped when I was twelve thanks to my guardian. Still,” she gave a small shake of her head, a lock of dark hair swinging loose and falling into her eyes. She didn’t make a move to brush it away. Instead Weiss smoothed it back and tucked it behind one ear, “the White Fang does not easily forgive. They have been hounding me for years.”

“And tonight they finally caught up with you,” Weiss finished for her.

“Yes,” Blake whispered.

It was so easy to lie, fabrications and forgeries as much a part of her as muscle and bone, these foundations marrow-deep and indivisible. Once lies had tasted acrid as they passed trippingly from the tongue, flecks of soot mired in the mouth, but they grew gilded with time, honey-sweet and mild, even humane. Lies like these were a kindness.

At last Weiss’ arms dropped to her sides. Blake could see her hands clench and unclench, anxious movements forming dips and hollows in her narrow wrists. She drew a shaking breath and the lengths of her blue cardigan rippled. When at last she spoke, her voice was strained, twined into unyielding plaits, “You know they hurt my family. In more ways than financially.”

Somewhere Blake had heard that certain species of birds swallowed stones, grinding in the gut, heavy with nausea. They rattled there now, riverbed slate sinking low, dragging in the current. She nodded.

“Were you a part of that?” Weiss asked, voice cracking.  

Head jerking up, Blake hissed vehemently, “No! No, I had nothing to do with high-ranking operations!”

The fluted column of Weiss throat worked. The flush that had crept into her skin, mottling it with rust, began to fade; Weiss’ barriers made it easy to forget she was not wrought of iron. “Well, that certainly explains why you were so evasive in the beginning.” If anything she sounded relieved, though threads of anger still wound through, her words rising to a fluid timbre. She sighed, “Next time something this big crops up, come to me. Or Yang. Or Ruby. We’re your teammates. That’s what we’re here for.”

Blake blinked, “You’re,” she searched Weiss gaze for any hint of treachery, “not mad?”

But Weiss just waved her away with a sad shake of her head, “You were a child,” she said, “You are as much a victim of the White Fang as I am.” No sooner had she spoken than her eyes sharpened, turning authoritative, “You  _are_  going to have to tell the others, you know. Yang’s your partner and Ruby’s our leader.”

“I can’t.” Blake insisted, gesturing to her face. “Not about this.”

“And what if the White Fang tries to attack you when you’re with us?” Weiss’ mouth pursed into a tight line. “They won’t be ready for it. You don’t have to tell them about…being hurt, but they need to know the truth.”

Swallowing roughly, Blake back the gut instinct to argue. She may as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, and Weiss wasn’t liable to trust her any more for refusing. It was a bitter pill to swallow that Ruby and Yang might look at her with sympathy, think that they could protect her from the shadow of the wounded wolf. The White Fang was under Cinder’s thumb now, their influence collared and chained; they were no more a threat than the Boarbatusks that Professor Port kept in cages like pets.

Letting out a soft sigh, she nodded, tracking the relief as it played across Weiss’ face. “I will.”

“Good.” Weiss said firmly.

There was a ghost of a smile afterwards, although Blake wasn’t sure who it was meant to comfort. She watched as Weiss picked up the fallen ribbon, stoppering the sink before filling it with water. There was only so much to be done to salvage the bow, blood trailing outward in slow threads as the ribbon was soaked, but that was better than leaving it as it had been atop her head.

When Weiss turned back to her, Blake felt her breath catch, anxiety tightening her throat. She had indulged in this gentle care long enough, let herself be soothed as if such mercy was deserved; it had been so long since someone had offered comfort, a touch that didn’t sting—

The thought cut short when Weiss’ hand caught on the stained cuff of her sleeve, clearly intending to pull it down.

“Don’t—” Blake began, the rebuke louder than she meant it to be, sharp enough to cut.

Weiss was so  _close_ , the fingers wrapped around her arm cold enough to feel through the fabric of the sleeve. She couldn’t let Weiss see what was underneath, but the excuse died on Blake’s lips, crumbling to pieces as she held the heiress’ stare, unable to ignore the faint blush rising across Weiss’ face like blood staining porcelain. That impenetrable aura of pride and carefully framed disdain seemed fragile when all she had to do was lean forward to close the last few inches between them, forsake her own fears just long enough for their mouths to meet.

Blake had only kissed one other person before; it was different with Weiss, all give and indescribable softness. There was a quiet murmur against her lips, a broken syllable, and the heat of Weiss’ tongue meeting hers, but Blake winced when their teeth clicked together, the angle making the other girl graze against a spot still swollen and sore in her mouth. She recoiled out of instinct at the brief flare of pain, embarrassment chasing quickly on its heels as warmth rushed straight up to her face.

“I—” Blake gulped down a breath, searching for any excuse for what she had done. The desire had risen in an instant, the need to show some sort of affection, but there was no changing the fact that it was Weiss; her teammate, her  _target_ —

“I’ll leave you to…get…changed.” Weiss hesitated, only to go rigid from head to toe when there was a hard rap on the outside of the bathroom door.

“What are you two doing in there?” Yang’s voice was heavy with sleep, barely audible through the door. “I need to pee.”

Blake’s eyes widened before she grabbed the towel stained with her blood, quickly bunching it up and shoving it into the trash bin. Her clothes were still destroyed, and it wasn’t as if she wanted to strip in front of Weiss, not after she had just made what had to be one of the worst mistakes of her life. She looked at the other girl, whose blush had mercifully disappeared, hoping the silent plea was made clear through her stare.

Weiss’ brow knit before ice blue eyes flickered towards the door. “Blake wasn’t feeling well. I was just making sure she was alright.”

There was a pause, followed by a drawn-out yawn. “You doing okay in there, partner?”

“I just need to wash up.” Blake didn’t have to feign the strain in her voice, not when it felt like her knees were on the edge of buckling. “Thanks…for your help, Weiss.”

“You’re welcome.” Weiss sounded like she would have rather swallowed glass than reply, but that was the end of it. A quick flick of the lock and the other girl was out the door, yanking it shut before Yang could get a glimpse into the bathroom, cardigan clutched together at her chest like an aegis.  

Blake heard a few murmurs after Weiss’ exit, but nothing that sounded ominous. Her outfit was still in tatters, the bloodied rag hopefully buried deep enough not to draw any attention, although a glance in the mirror proved that all but the worst bruises and scrapes had healed clean, and those would be covered by the clothes Weiss had left.

Changing made Blake all too aware of the bone-deep ache all over her body, compounded by fatigue, but once she was dressed again, bow tied despite being soaking wet, the sink drained, it was simple to pretend that the last few hours hadn’t happened, save for the warmth lingering against her lips like a curse.

A distraction. That’s all it should have been, enough to draw Weiss away from pulling down the sleeve, but Blake hadn’t calculated on not wanting to stop, nor how it felt when the heiress returned the kiss. She wasn’t used to fumbling — or initiating — and yet—

“You okay, Blake?” Yang’s voice pierced through the door one more. “It got kind of quiet in there.”

“I’ll be right out.” Blake said, quickly gathering up the shreds of her outfit.

As soon as she opened the door, she pushed past Yang, walking straight to her dresser before dropping everything she held into the drawer and shoving it closed, ignoring the brief groan of wood and metal. When Blake looked back, heart halfway up her throat, she saw the blonde had apparently taken it in stride, vanishing into the bathroom without a word. Ruby was unmoving atop her bed, lost to slumber, the wire of her headphones draped off the edge of the mattress.

Weiss, however, was a series of rigid lines beneath her sheets, arms crossed and one sharp elbow jutting out over the soft hem. Blake forced herself to look away, approaching her own bed in complete silence. Pulling the weight of the comforter over her body sent a  jolt of pain through wounded ribs, but she kept still and quiet. Staring at the far wall, Blake had no sense of time, little sense of anything but the idle tossing and turning above her when Yang returned to the upper bunk, the rustling eventually becoming a faint, breathy snore.

It was only then that she risked turning her eyes to the other side of the room. Weiss had relaxed in the depths of slumber, curled up against one thin pillow. Strands of white hair shone like silver under the broken moon’s light, a few curls twisting at the ends from a ponytail undone in haste, left unbrushed. Blake pressed one hand to her mouth, willing the sensation there to fade. She could pray Weiss wouldn’t say anything to the others, but the future would unfold regardless.

Cinder would paint that white with red, dye a legacy with enough blood to drown them both.


	6. Chapter 6

When Blake woke up the next morning, Weiss and the others were already fighting over bathroom space. Head pounding, exhaustion steeping her bones dark, Blake gingerly sat up in bed and rubbed at her eyes. The room swam and her stomach lurched, nauseous from having to heal too many wounds the night before.

She tongued her upper lip and could feel a crease in the skin, the dry seal barely holding in the pulse of blood. Other lines marked her body, feeling paper-thin, ready to be punctured at the slightest touch. Her body was healed, but her skin barely disguised the workings of arteries and muscles beneath, bursting at the seams like some creation resurrected upon a scientist’s table.

Gut roiling, Blake swung her legs over the side of the bed, but did not stand. Her hands gripped the edge of the mattress. She swallowed a flux of bile down and steadied herself before looking up.

Weiss was bickering with Yang, back to her, when Ruby gave an energetic wave and mumbled cheerily around her toothbrush, “Morning, Blake!”

Eyes lighting up, Yang smiled over Weiss’ shoulder from the doorway, “Finally awake, partner? You sure slept in later than usual.”

“Yes,” Blake mumbled, giving a small grimace instead of a smile in return, “I’m still not feeling fully human yet, I’m afraid.”

Her first instinct was to avoid Weiss’ gaze completely, to drop her own eyes to the other girl’s bare feet and feel her shoulders wilt, her spirits wane. In spite of herself, she looked over as Weiss glanced in her direction. The heiress’ face was devoid of recognition, just a stony barricade along the shore, posture as guarded as the slant of her mouth. Blake was immediately reminded of her fumbled promise to speak to Yang and Ruby, despite wanting nothing more than to wash the bitterness out of her mouth and hide in the warm, private cell of the shower.

She had already shredded the threads of trust between them; if she went back on her word, Weiss could cut them completely, nurse a grudge that made everything Cinder wanted untenuous. Blake took a deep breath, hoping it would summon another ounce of composure. The way Faunus were treated at Beacon was a mix of apathy and active malice, depending on the student, but any jibes or slights would have to be endured. Failing again simply wasn’t an option.

“Actually, I need to tell you something.” Blake began, noting a flash of emotion — unreadable — in Weiss’ stare. “Ruby. Yang.”

Her heart quickened to a staccato rhythm when both sisters looked her way. Ruby’s toothbrush went still, Yang’s lilac gaze holding a curious glint. They were attentive and kind, worthy of a hundred compliments Blake would never find suited for herself, but she had seen too many hands offered in charity clench into fists the moment it was realized a Faunus was the one accepting their gift. The prejudice was so deep as to be set into blood and bone, the backlash instinctive.

“I—” Telling Weiss had been so much easier, the confession uttered out of fear from a bruised throat. Doing it purposefully with anticipation leveled her way made Blake fight not to flinch when she reached up to the top of her head, feeling for the bow. The water had done something ruinous to the ribbon last night, made it stiff and uncomfortable, making the relief as it was pulled away even more poignant.

Blake’s eyes fell to the floor, unable to bear both the reveal and whatever look might be etched in Ruby and Yang’s faces. Her ears twitched in grateful instinct for the freedom, confirming they were part of her, unquestionably real. There was a soft gasp, the clatter of a toothbrush hitting the floor followed by a disgusted sigh from Weiss, presumably from the mix of toothpaste and saliva that scattered at the impact.

“Woah.” Yang’s voice was dull with shock. “You’re…a Faunus?”

“Your ears are really, um—” Ruby hesitated, nearly bouncing on her toes out of excitement and surprise, “—cute. Is it okay to say that? There weren’t any Faunus at Signal, really, and I don’t know…”

Neither response was what Blake expected, warily glancing upward. Yang certainly looked a bit dazed, but not angry, and Ruby was scrabbling to pick up her toothbrush, taking the towel Weiss shoved in her direction to wipe up the floor. The heiress herself still had an empty expression, not bothering to feign surprise at the reveal. Blake couldn’t tell if it was the kiss or the promise keeping the other girl surrounded by a rime of distrust, projected like an aura.

“Why did you hide it?” Yang asked, brushing back strands of golden hair behind one ear. “I mean, I’ve got your back no matter what.”

“In my experience, not everyone has such mild reactions to finding out that someone is a Faunus,” Blake deflected dryly, “People tend to change their tune.”

Yang opened her mouth only to clamp it shut and sigh, “Yeah, I—” she scratched at the back of her head and grimaced, “I guess that was a stupid question. Sorry.” When Blake scowled and made to retort, Yang waved her away, “Yeah, yeah. ‘ _Don’t apologize so much, Yang_.’ I can’t help it. It’s going to happen. Just accept it.”

The protest died on Blake’s lips, replaced instead by a the twitch of a rueful smile and a shake of her head, swiftly followed by an ill-hidden wince; she had momentarily forgotten that quick movements increased the pounding in her skull tenfold.

“So…” Ruby rinsed her toothbrush in the sink and, setting it aside, exited the bathroom and started towards her side of the room, “should we get ready for breakfast?”

Blake blinked, taken aback, “That’s it?”

“Well, I mean,” pausing, Ruby shrugged, “I’m glad you told us, and I feel terrible that you thought you had to keep it a secret.” She smiled at the look of mingled shock and suspicion on Blake’s face, “But I’m still glad you did.”

Blake never knew how to react to praise. In her experience it was so rarely given, a gem clouded with the deliverer’s ire, precious yet murky with taint. Now, looking at Ruby’s honest, open face, Blake felt a swelling in her throat like a precursor to bile and she swallowed it back, ducking her head. Her ears swiveled sideways, held in an uncertain lilt. It was as close to bashful as she had ever felt, that and something else she wasn’t sure she entirely liked yet; vulnerability had never been an easy passenger in the journey of her life thus far.

“Right,” Weiss interrupted the moment with a cool stare at Ruby and Yang, “Now that that’s been handled, can I use the bathroom now?”

“Hey, wait,” Yang crossed her arms, head tilted quizzically, “Why aren’t you surprised about all this? Aren’t you the one always harping on about the Faunus and Faunus labor laws and—?”

“Blake is my teammate and a good person, and that’s all I care to say on the matter,” Weiss hissed through clenched teeth, still refusing to look in Blake’s direction regardless of her words, “And I really do need to use the bathroom.”

“Yeah, but—” Yang continued, only to be cut off by Blake.

“It’s fine,” she murmured softly from her place on the bed, “We spoke about it already.”

Yang blinked, and then it dawned on her, “Oh.  _Oh_. So that’s why you two were in the bathroom last night—”

“Yes, now can I please get—!” Weiss batted at Yang’s offending shoulder, ineffectively trying to push her out of the doorway, “Just—! Move already, you great lout!”

“Alright! Alright!” Holding up her hands in surrender, Yang stepped out of the way, “Geeze, somebody’s taken her cranky pills this morning!”

The others slipped back into routine so easily. They didn’t even comment when Blake tied the ribbon back in place while getting dressed before they all headed out for the cafeteria. She could feel Weiss’ steady look, but whenever she glanced over Weiss’s eyes were already darting elsewhere, her face an indifferent scowl that normally accompanied her morning mood.

Team JNPR had just started down the hall when they left their room, and Ruby called out, jogging ahead a few steps to exchange a few words with Jaune, while Yang and Weiss entered into another bickering match. The two griped good-naturedly at one another until Ruby returned after they had all rounded the corner, but even then Blake kept quiet in the background. Her school uniform felt constricting, the coils of a snake winding round, reminding her of every ache and pain still lingering from the night before, her head a mass of barbs.

Upon entering the cafeteria, the smell of food hit Blake like a physical blow. The very thought of eating turned her stomach, but she knew it would be worse if she abstained from food, so she spooned scrambled eggs and buttered toast upon her plate, making her way to the table they usually shared with the others. Ruby and Yang plopped themselves down beside one another on the bench, leaving Weiss and Blake to stand awkwardly over the table. At last Weiss took a seat, and Blake gingerly fell into place beside her, careful so that they did not accidentally graze one another in the process. The fact that Weiss was left-handed certainly didn’t help, both of them maneuvering their forks with a surgical care and sitting as far apart from one another as they could without drawing suspicion. In that regard, however, they failed miserably.

Yang squinted at them from across the table, already halfway done with her towering stack of pancakes, “Alright, what is it with you two?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Weiss sniffed, daintily daubing the edge of her toast in the yolk of a ruptured poached egg.

Jabbing a fork at them, Yang said, “Don’t give me that. You’ve been skittish around one another all morning. Are you sure you’re fine with the Faunus thing?” She directed the last at Weiss.

Blue eyes narrowed, “I thought we’d already discussed this.”

Blake sat to the side as quietly as she could in a failed attempt to exclude herself from the conversation, pushing aside bits of scrambled egg with her fork. She had taken a few bites and already felt like rushing to the bathroom to be sick.

“Well, clearly we need to talk about it some more. Do I need to lock you two alone in a room to work out your differences once and for all?”

Yang’s threat did not go over well; Weiss bristled, but before she could snap back, Ruby intervened.

“What Yang meant,” she said in an attempt to smooth Weiss’ figuratively raised hackles, “was that for the sake of the team, we need to all be on the same page. Right?”

Pale and trembling, Blake could feel cold sweat dotting her temples. She stood, “I’m not feeling well,” she mumbled, “I’m going back to the room to lie down.”

Weiss looked like she was going to snipe at her as well, but when she turned and caught sight of Blake’s face she swallowed whatever sharp remark she was planning on delivering. Instead, it seemed like she was looking fully at Blake for the first time that morning and returned to glaring at her breakfast, hands twisting together in her lap.

“Oh. Feel better,” Ruby called to Blake’s retreating back.

At the exit Blake turned right for appearance’s sake, only to double back at another side corridor. Ozpin and Glynda would both still be eating breakfast in the staff lounge, if their schedule remained the same, leaving Ozpin’s office free and — knowing Ozpin — completely unlocked.

Nausea numbed her feet and wrists, a swelling knot in her stomach that extended through her limbs until she felt like a head without body, external sensation an afterthought to present pain. She would lie down. Later. Not now. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to rest easy until she got that scroll’s information to Cinder, every stab and thrum of pain a reminder of her failure, demanding immediate rectification.

The halls were mercifully devoid of people, the odd gaggle of late students dashing to the cafeteria for breakfast before classes, a teacher scolding them for running inside. Blake made as though for the library, head down, slinking like a shadow along the walls.

If anyone noticed her they gave no indication, their eyes sliding over her form as though she didn’t even exist. She peeked over her shoulders briefly once standing in front of Ozpin’s office, before reaching out and trying the handle with bated breath. The handle gave easily, tumblers clicking, and the door opened. Blake didn’t even bother with her usual level of stealth and subterfuge; she simply slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

The room swam, bookshelves tilting to one side, the floor sloping up, desk a parallel cant. Stumbling forward, Blake rifled furiously through drawers where she had left off previously. Her actions were careless and she knew it, but she could not bring herself to care. Being caught by Glynda or Ozpin was preferable to another failure, the memory of Cinder’s wrath whispering in her ear, breathing scalds of heat down her neck.

A rattle jerked Blake’s attention around. She dropped to her knees to find its source, the buzzing increasing in volume with her ear pressed to the desk. Pushing the chair away, she lay flat on her back beneath the desk and began to tap along its underside, knuckles rapping sharply against wood until a hollow thud rang out. Fingers branching out, Blake pressed up and a false panel gave way. Out rolled not one but three scrolls, landing on her chest and tumbling to the floor. Scrambling into an upright position, still seated, hunched, beneath the desk, Blake fumbled with a data chip, pushing it into place in a slot on the first scroll and waiting.

Only fifteen seconds passed per scroll, codes cracked and information streaming in a blur onto the data chip, but it seemed like an age. Blake crouched there, ears twisted back towards the door behind her, straining for the slightest sound. Then the last scroll blinked at her, announcing its completion with a small chime and cheery vibration, and Blake was stuffing them all back into place. She crawled out from under the desk, standing too soon and bumping her head on the edge with a wince more for the noise it produced than the dull smack of pain, a mere afterthought in comparison to the other aches.

The room looked relatively similar to when she had first entered, if slightly more lived in. On a normal day she wouldn’t have been so careless, but today she yanked the door open and left before her work could be interrupted once more. It was only when she rounded the far corner walking briskly back in the direction of the dormitories that she fished her own scroll out of her pocket and inserted the chip.

Her steps slowed to a sluggish amble as her screen lit up. The information from the chip flickered across the scroll’s surface, and all the while the orange intrusion Cinder had placed in the device funneled the data away. Yet Blake watched while it whisked off, amber eyes scanning private emails and graphs, some long, some no more than a sentence or two. The bulk of it was correspondence between Ozpin and Glynda, though Qrow’s name leapt to the foreground with alarming frequency.

Recurring words and phrases ran across the scroll.  _Dust Augmentation. Human Trials._

Ozpin and Qrow kept alluding to a number of unnamed deaths, people rendered faceless in the grave. A few pictures flashed across the screen as well, charred twisted bodies, jaws wrenched open, blackened hands curled into corvid talons, their bones still pulsing with familiar fiery runes. 

> _“Subject Zero showed the most promise, but also the most zeal — by far the most eager of our cases. That alone should have warned us.”_
> 
> _“I should have been surprised. Elated, even. Subject Zero was the sole survivor. We’d done it. All those years of research and experimentation. We’d finally done it. Then why did I feel only the cold stirrings of dread?”_

The information finished copying over, then the data on the chip deleted itself, leaving not a trace behind before Blake could finish reading the journal entries and missives. She would have to drop off her scroll this evening. Only Cinder could unlock it; the scroll was in Blake’s hands, but she had no chance of cracking the now coded information inside. Though what little she had gleaned was enough to send her mind whirring.

Tucking the scroll away, she quickened her step towards the dormitories. The pain was muted now, body threaded with a dim pain she could sleep off in a few hours. Her arm itched beneath the sleeve, but she resisted the urge to scratch.

 

—

 

_Purpose in her step, triumph in her walk — the heist had been weeks in the planning, and now it was done. All through the meetings leading up to the job, Roman had been a grumbling obstruction, pointing out every tiny flaw and shining it under a magnifying glass; here the reason the heist would fail; here the tactical errors; but most of all here Blake’s crumbling authority called into question._

_The men hired to do the dirty work on the ground would shot uncomfortable looks between themselves, not knowing which view to gravitate towards. Yet Blake had stomached his contempt with poise, though when away from prying eyes the doubt ate away at her with a gnawing hunger. In the end, though, everything had gone according to plan._

_Adrenaline surged through Blake’s limbs, the warm rush making her forget to quiet her steps as she stepped through the entrance to the compound, prize in hand. The theft had been too simple in the end, barely five minutes in and out past one of Vale’s most sophisticated security systems, and without any backup laying in wait. Roman would be licking his wounds for days. Blake had felt in tune with the shadows, passing through the darkness with ease, avoiding every camera and tripwire with the grace only Faunus sight could offer._

_The data chips were fragile, tucked in a pouch at her hip, but it was hard to keep them from bouncing as she crept through the halls, keeping both sets of ears peeled for where Cinder might be. Various tunnels lead to elevators and stone-cut stairs alike, the building a forced fusion of castle architecture and modern day tech; it made navigating the floors an exercise in frustration, a multi-layered labyrinth heavy with Cinder’s scent in nearly every corridor. Blake finally felt her pulse begin to even out, excitement giving way to a dissatisfied growl as she passed yet another empty room._

_In a last ditch attempt to find her, Blake rounded the corner and found herself facing the door to Cinder’s personal quarters. Where the other doors were modern and crisp, this one was wood bound in heavy iron, arched into a sharp peak. She hesitated, knowing this was the only place she was never allowed to enter. Her fingers trembled in anticipation as she raised her arm and wet her lips, a nervous dart of her tongue. She knocked, a quick rap of her knuckles twice along the grain._

_A long pause and then:_

_“Enter.”_

_Blake lifted the latch in place of a knob, and the door swung inward, a slow silent drift over the stone floor. She entered, closing the door quietly behind her, then looked around the room. It sprawled before her, a chamber with sweeping vaults over squat pillars, the space somehow intimate yet detached._

_Along the left side jutted a large four-poster bed hung with curtains, bone-coloured red and cream. A woolly ewe’s skin was thrown over a squat chest at the foot of the bed, a place to sit but also to store. Draped across the far wall there hung a tapestry of dark silks, a woven scene: there was a man halfway through his transformation into a stag, broad neck twisted over his fawny back in agony, a huntress filled with divine fury gripping his branching antlers and drawing her hunting knife, her arrow still stuck firmly in his side, a mortal dart._

_An antique recurve bow laid with horn was mounted above the mantlepiece, and leaning against the fireplace in the place of pokers bristled a quiver of steel-tipped arrows, glinting fresh and bright. The hearth crackled absent wood to fuel it, flames licking the granite walls a dusty black. Fingers toying idly with the stem of a wine glass, nails sliding across the bowl, tracing the stalk to circle the base, Cinder sat engrossed in a book. Despite Blake’s entry, she did not look up. Forge-bright eyes roving quickly over lines of text, Cinder lifted the glass to her lips and took a long heady draught, swirling the dark tides within the bowl as she swallowed, then set the glass carefully back down_

_For a few moments Blake stood awkwardly in the center of the room, resisting the urge to shuffle her feet or wring her hands in a gesture that too closely resembled weakness. Cinder never approved of such thoughtless indications. Instead she walked forward, careful to keep her footfalls as quiet as possible, unlike before when the heels of her boots had all but clattered through the hallways in her haste. She moved to stand at an angle between Cinder and the fireplace, reaching into the pouch to draw out the data chips, letting them fall from her palm onto the table beside Cinder’s wineglass._

_“I retrieved the data chips,” she announced, unable to keep a hint of satisfaction from coloring her tone, “I could have done it in my sleep.”_

_One dark brow arched; Cinder glanced, a tilt of her head sending a lock of hair curling across her cheek. Where there should have been the spark of pride in Cinder’s eyes, there flared ire like a struck match, mouth twisting down at one corner. Blake still stood nearby, unable to keep from rocking forward on the balls of her feet, feeling elation swell in her chest — she could not see Cinder’s expression. When nothing was said, she opened her mouth to speak once more, to try to prod some small measure of praise from Cinder — so rarely distributed. There were some times, though, and how heavenly those times were._

_Pushing her chair back, Cinder rose to her feet, draining the last of her wine, rolling it along the tongue. She put the glass back and picked up the thick green bottle, reading the label as though musing aloud, “Brunello di Montalcino,” she murmured, tracing the label with her thumb, “Famous for its use of sangiovese, a fruit befitting the title ‘the blood of Jove.’ A fine year.”_

_Her wrist turned and suddenly she rounded upon Blake, wielding the near empty bottle like a club. The blow knocked Blake to the floor, the hard edges of Gambol Shroud digging into her back. Pain ruptured the skin of her face, split into wide red cracks; she could feel splinters of bone slide from her jaw even as her Aura automatically rushed to heal the wounds. She gripped the side of her head, tasting iron._

_Cinder tossed the last dregs of the bottle into the hearth, flames spitting in return; the bottle itself followed soon after, shattering against the back of the fireplace, large shards of glass fanning out in every direction. When Cinder spoke, her voice was a vintage, rich and dark and laced with dusky vows._

_“Clearly I have been remiss in my duties as a mother if you approach me with such disrespect.”_

_Blake was dragged back up to her feet with such strength that it felt like Cinder was going to lift her in the air entirely, forced to balance on her toes as the hard press of nails bit through the fabric of vest and shirt, pressed against her skin as a dark promise of the pain to come. The sheath on her back was more a burden than protection, its weight threatening to make her stumble out of Cinder’s grip. It would be taken as a coward’s gambit, an attempt to escape, and nothing brought harsher punishment._

_“Did you expect a reward for tossing valuable data at me like a beast with a fresh kill?” Cinder’s eyes glowed brighter, making Blake shudder. It was hard to breathe, held at this angle. “I could hear you in the halls, strutting as if you were the mistress of this stone and steel. It’s a wonder you succeeded at all, clambering with the grace of a newborn colt.”_

_“I didn’t—” The words escaped Blake’s mouth before she could silence them, a wave of fear paralyzing her so thoroughly her body felt numb._

_Cinder’s lips were stained burgundy with recent spirits. When she spoke stray sparks leapt with her words, her throat boiling yellow and white so that the skin of her neck pulsed scarlet with every breath, “You are mine. Everything you are, I made you. I forged you within me like the blade you carry and I will not brook impertinence from the heir I bred. Do you understand me?”_

_As she spoke the room seemed to dim as the fires gathered in Cinder’s chest, eyes and the runes on her body weeping drops of flame like blood from a wound. She crackled like a torched conifer accompanied by syllabic pops and snarls, boughs locking Blake in place in a terrible embrace. Blake tried steadying herself, ankles curving, toes scraping along the stone floor, but a rough hand seized her chin, forced her head to tilt down._

_She winced and Cinder glared up at her, liquid fire in her gaze, “Do you understand?” she repeated, voice a low crawling caress, a harsh dichotomy to the fingers digging painfully into the delicate hollows between jaw and neck. It was so easy to forget Blake was taller — Cinder, no matter the situation, always seemed greater in strength, size and fortitude._

_“I—” Blake swallowed, blood a metallic tinge in her mouth, skin flinching past the sharp pinch of Cinder’s nails, “Yes.”_

_That oaken grip tightened and Blake fought back a whimper of pain as tendons creaked beneath the weight of Cinder’s palm, “Yes?”_

_“Yes…mother.”_

_A snarl stole across Cinder’s features and she shoved Blake away so hard that she tripped on her heels and stumbled against the table. Cast in the flushed glow of the fireplace and Cinder’s own radiant Aura, Blake leaned upon one of the chairs, supporting her weight with the heel of one hand._

_Cinder approached the table without looking at her. Once there, she carefully lay a black velvet strip in the crease between pages, marking her spot, and shut the book. On the cover glinted gold lettering along embossed leather, the title and the author name scratched into illegibility. Fingers tracing the gouges, Cinder ordered firmly, “Stand in the middle of the room.”_

_Trembling, Blake did as commanded without delay, standing in the center with the bed to her back, facing the tapestry, knowing the scene there, balking like a stag to hounds, though she held the desire to cower tight in her stomach._

_Cinder’s steps rang, leaden and irrevocable, against the stone floor, the chain of feathers around her ankle clinking with every step, “You will think me cruel. Selfish,” she said softly as she approached, “but love is always selfish; the more ardent, the more selfish.”_

_She stopped before Blake, who looked at the space between their feet, fear twisting her entrails — this was how animals must have felt led to altars still streaming with recent blood, chest cracked and wrenched open, flanks heaving, lungs fluttering flushed and pink._

_“Hold out your arm.”_

_Fighting back the tremors, Blake raised her arm up for Cinder’s inspection._

_Cinder made no move to touch; instead she said, “Look at me.”_

_Blake dragged her gaze up, following lines and curves. The fire in Cinder’s eyes was muted, a barely contained blaze that could rear to life at any moment and engulf her like a pyre, “One day you may grow to hate me,” she began, “and this may be the seed of that future. But even then, even when I have died, I will always be with you; and you will follow me to the grave — as we all do — and I will be waiting.”_

_She gripped Blake’s forearm tightly with one hand. Heat amassed beneath her flesh, converging in her chest, where the runes glowed bright, and swarming down, extending through her fingers, “Let this serve as a reminder,” she hissed, holding Blake’s terrified stare, “There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.”_

_The scalding heat flooded the vessel of her body then, pouring from Cinder’s grasp, and Cinder watched her shriek and twist in her relentless grip with an expression like tenderness and vindication. Sinking to her knees, Blake could feel her Aura stir to life, shadows dancing along her body to the chorus of her screams, but the temperature only rose, air rippling like a desert mirage._

_“Do not heal yourself,” Cinder ordered, voice firm, accompanied by a dig of her nails into the soft underside of Blake’s arm._

_The smell of scorched meat mingled with smoke until Blake’s eyes stung, the room reeking like a tannery. With a force of will she did not know she possessed, Blake tethered her Aura and let herself burn. It was like forcing her head to stay underwater, bucking against every instinct of self-preservation. The only thing keeping her upright was Cinder’s unyielding purchase holding Blake’s upper body in a slumped angle, a sharp line jutting from elbow to shoulder, then her legs buckling under her, knees splayed wide, head hanging._

_She did not know for how long she knelt there; the pain blended time together, seconds immiscible and sinking like sediment to the bottom of a glass. At last she was released, and she curled up around her arm on the floor, cradling it to her chest, but the pain did not fade. It lingered, a cauterized palette, a taste on the tongue. Strong hands lifted her up, arms folding over her back and beneath her knees, turning her over and bearing her. She felt weightless, suspended in agony as an insect in amber, a viscous copper-flecked haze._

_Slowly the pain eased, making its retreat, footsteps a dull thundering march to the furious beating of her own heart. She blinked and her vision remained red, the red of Cinder’s bedsheets and Cinder’s dress and the angry scar now on her arm in the shape of a handprint, an omnipresent reminder._

_She was lying on the bed, body coiled around Cinder’s seated form so that her head rested in the woman’s lap. Warmth emanated from Cinder and it soothed rather than stung as she stroked Blake’s head, touch soft and wandering from the crown of her head, down the long lengths of wild hair, sketching whorls in the small of her back with her fingertips._

_Cinder threaded her fingers back through Blake’s hair, nails at her scalp, a tenuous pressure applied to skin, “I was always grateful you were an only child, Blake.”_

_She didn’t dare speak, even to agree. When Cinder leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, so gentle it only provoked a split second of heat, Blake stiffened in surprise, unsure how to answer what felt like affection. There were only a handful of other moments to compare it to, so fleeting that she had long suspected they were fragments of dreams instead of memories, her thoughts building a scene in slumber of Cinder loving her, caring enough to finally make the pain stop._

_“You belong here with me,” The words were whispered, but may as well have been shouted for how deeply they etched themselves into Blake’s mind, “you know that, don’t you?”_

_Blake nodded then, having no other answer to give. She felt dizzy, exhaustion taking its brutal toll as her eyes slid halfway closed. There was a shift under her, the sensation of vertigo, before the taste of wine met her tongue. Darkness and warmth were all-encompassing, time drifting just as it had when Cinder’s hand branded her skin, held her in that purgatory of pain until Blake forgot she had ever felt anything else._

_She hung, suspended like flotsam, and the slow rush of blood in her ears was the distant roar of the sea, the waves of the bedsheets warm, inviting, and inebriating. Dragged downward beneath the tide, Cinder’s proximity a wicked undertow — it felt like drowning, oxygen crushed from Blake’s lungs before she was allowed to gasp to the surface._

_Perhaps it was real, perhaps it wasn’t. The memories of that night were a dire tangle, a maze of thorns threatening to make her prick and bleed, pulling her back into despair’s embrace. Some time had passed — days, perhaps a week — before Cinder gave her a small box, wrapped in a bow of the same material that bound Gambol Shroud._

_Blake had opened it with shaking hands, expecting another test, only to find a black sleeve of cloth inside, its silver cuff sized to fit tightly around her bicep and keep it in place. It covered the brand from the eyes of others while reminding Blake of the scar with every tug of fabric against raised, burned flesh. Cinder’s discipline, like Cinder’s mercy, was a private affair._

 

—-

 

The drop had been quick, almost simple. Cinder was dismissive after she handed over the scroll, not even allowing an opening for Blake to confess that her team had been told she was a Faunus. Sure, their reaction had been little beyond confusion and wary support, but it seemed important to share. The second she had opened her mouth, however, Cinder had ordered it shut and never gave permission again to speak. Things were moving in haste, a matter of weeks at that, and Blake’s orders were reaffirmed; stay close to Weiss —  _the heiress_  — and wait for the time to come.

Blake wasn’t sure how it didn’t show on her face the moment Cinder hissed Weiss’ name, tangled in the same company as Ozpin and the rest. She could still feel the kiss like it had just happened, convinced that it clung like a scent to her skin, that it would be sniffed out and her punishment unrelenting. Instead she was sent away with all the attention paid a lackey, Cinder’s ire retaining an edge of steel, but none of the hellfire that had left her beaten bloody, cowering in the dark halls of the dorms.

She was jumpy the entire run back, waiting for Cinder to reappear, to take her by the throat once more and demand the truth, pry the very tongue from her mouth for withholding such a secret. There was no company but the red-feathered songbirds that often made their nests in Forever Fall, chirping to one another despite sunrise having hours yet to come. When the gates of Beacon were in view again, a quick breath of relief caught in her throat, making the vault over them effortlessly.

It was the first time being inside the school grounds ever felt like a ward instead of a prison.

Blake closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to chase that particular thought any further. She dashed back to her room in record time, regretting the sudden burst of energy when sweat gathered around her bow, rose in the hollow of her throat. At least it wasn’t terribly long past curfew; if she was quiet enough, maybe she could sneak in a quick shower or at least wash up in the sink without waking her teammates. A brief swipe of her key opened the door, eyes piercing through the darkness.

Her shoulders had sagged, relaxing with the promise of taking Gambol Shroud from her back, but Blake was seized by a sharp coil of tension when she realized Weiss’ bed was empty, the comforter pushed aside into a mess of blankets. Ruby was in the top bunk, still for the steady rhythm of breath; Yang was across from her, curled towards the wall and lost to slumber. Where in nine hells was Weiss?

The splash of water drew Blake’s attention to the bathroom; although the light wasn’t on, there was the subtle shift of movement under the gap between door and floor. That was better than Weiss being out of the room entirely, although the heiress was usually the first among them to fall asleep, considering rest to be as vital a part of being a proper huntress as study. Mindful of the weak plank, Blake approached the door as quietly as possible, ears flicking under her bow as she strained to listen.

There was a sniffle, followed by a frustrated huff. The flow of water became idle droplets as the sink was turned off, but it was impossible to tell what the faint movements meant. They were uneven, Weiss’ feet solid against tile only to be muffled by the small rug in front of the shower; was she pacing?

“You’re not as quiet as you think you are.” Blake went rigid as Weiss’ voice carried past the door. “Just come in.”

Leaving would have been the smart choice, or stripping off her clothes and slipping into bed like nothing had happened at all. Even out of anger, Weiss wouldn’t risk waking the others to drag Blake into a fight, if only to avoid someone else giving their opinion. She reached for the door, fingers hesitating an inch from its surface. Cinder’s orders had been clear; things were coming to a close, they —  _she_  — was running out of time.

Weiss was facing the mirror when she stepped inside, the wet rag in her hands streaked with eyeliner black and powder white. The heiress’ cheeks had been scrubbed so thoroughly as to hold a faint pink glow, but despite their eyes briefly linking in the reflection, Weiss didn’t turn to look her way.

“How do you keep hearing me?” Blake asked.

“I don’t.” Weiss pointed to the small night-light near the garbage can. “It’s not much, but enough to see your feet under the door. Were you just going to spy on me until I came to bed?”

“No.” Blake said, a bit louder than she intended. “I was worried since you weren’t asleep.”

“Funny, because you’re the one who was outside again a night after you were just beaten half to death by other Faunus.” Weiss’ jaw tightened. “No one would possibly be worried by that.”

She opened her mouth to counter before remembering the lie. If it had only been other Faunus, Blake would have been allowed to fight back. “It’s hard to think you’re worried when you won’t even look at me.”

“I’m not—” Weiss dropped the rag into the sink and turned around. “You can’t just kiss people.”

Blake blinked, a blush climbing up her face so fast it was almost dizzying. “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t just kiss people and then say nothing.” The pink across Weiss’ cheeks was transfused with a warm red. “What could possibly possess you to do such a thing?”

 _You were too close_  sounded as bad in her head as  _you were too gentle_ , neither of them carrying the weight of a proper excuse. Blake knew she had kissed Weiss without asking, taken what she wanted just like— “I don’t know.”

“You don’t  _know_?” The heiress’ voice rose nearly an octave. “Is it a Faunus affectation I’ve never heard of, some sort of cultural gap?”

“No.” Blake sighed, praying that the others stayed asleep. “I just….I wanted to.”

“You chose a very poor time to express that.” Weiss said, although the anger didn’t sink too far into the words. “How…long have you wanted to?”

“I—” Panic twisted around Blake’s heart like a vise, squeezing tight. Weeks? Longer? As soon as that chill had swept across her skin, soothing the burn she had provoked by stumbling into Yang, but it didn’t matter. Weiss was Cinder’s prize, the jewel to coronate a successful conquest. “I—”

“Blake.” Weiss’ brow knit, the heiress taking a careful step forward. “Take a breath. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine.” The words were hollow, fragile. How many lies was she supposed to keep track of at once?

She blinked. It was just a split second and no longer, Blake was sure of it, but Weiss was suddenly in front of her. Even in the near-dark of the room, the heiress’ eyes were that singular blue, calling to mind water and ice, an ocean she could drown herself in if she got close enough, if she let her lungs collapse long enough to find peace. There were stars on the edge of Blake’s vision, white and glittering, Weiss was reaching out to her—

“No!” Blake recoiled from the hand that grazed her sleeve, back pressing firmly against the door. The shout had forced her to draw in a breath and it stung, bitter and burning, proof she was still a coward to be so easily brought to heel. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”

Regret played across Weiss’ expression, so quick it couldn’t be subdued. “What are you so afraid of? You kiss me, you say you meant it, and then—”

“I’ll hurt you.” Blake interrupted with a hiss, hand clamped tightly over the sleeve, feeling the familiar grooves of the scar underneath. “I’ll hurt you, Weiss.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Weiss’ hand lowered inch by inch before returning to her side. “I don’t know what this is or even I how I feel right now, but don’t treat me like a child. You won’t hurt me. I just want the truth.”

The truth. That Weiss meant nothing more than her family’s name, that she was just a hound on the end of a leash, sent to flush the heiress out into the open. Would she even survive the hunt or would Cinder strike her down right there, seeing that she was put down once purpose had been served and fulfilled? Blake felt her knees buckle, fear drawing her to the floor like it was going to swallow her whole.

She welcomed it with a shaking laugh. Let the shadows take her, let this finally stop. A dozen sets of amber eyes mocked freely, their mouths twisting in snarls of sharpened white teeth, encircling her like a pack of wolves. Pieces of darkness brought to life, fed by her Aura, the twisted gift where one became many. They were solid enough to touch, blocking Weiss from view; perhaps if she focused, gave them enough of herself, they would eat her alive. Better that than surrendering Weiss like a lamb to slaughter, watching Ruby and Yang see her as the monster she’d been bred to be.

“Blake.”

Her blood turned to ice. The room was suddenly freezing, a shiver going through her as the clones blinked out of existence, slipping back into the dark nest of her skin. Without their snapping fangs and claws, she was alone and adrift, cold seeping through her clothes and down to her bones. Not alone, no, not with the outline of white, the hand resting on her knee, a gentle constant, an anchor.

“Blake, look at me.”

Was she crying? Blake choked on her next breath, tasting the salt that had trickled down her cheeks. Weiss was kneeling in front of her, offering the single touch with the rest of her body kept further back, not looming over as a threat. She couldn’t bear it, not when the other girl was supposed to be angry, should have been outraged at all she had done, everything she had set into motion. The key there was honesty; surely the truth would be enough to push Weiss over that final edge, drive sword and Dust straight through her heart.

“Cinder.” Blake whispered. “She’ll hurt you.”

Weiss frowned, worry twisting into the hard angles of confusion. “Who?”


	7. Chapter 7

Weiss stared down at her. The only sound in the room was the intermittent drip of the leaky tap. Silence extended between them like an impassable stony plain as Blake sat on the cold tiled floor, waiting for the inevitable castigation. Weiss stood just a pace away, but she had never seemed so distant. Disbelief faded from her eyes, and there it was — anger dawned, suffusing her face, jaw tightening, gaze hardening to sharp points. Blake steeled herself. Her body coiled taut, but the blow she expected never came.

A deep steadying breath, accompanied by a swift jerk of Weiss’ arm to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration. At the quick movement Blake flinched, her body instinctively curling upon itself, a jerky recoil. Even when it was clear that Weiss was not intending to lash out, Blake remained tense, eyes downturned, whispers of shadow slithering just beneath her skin, flesh mottled as though with dark shifting bruises. She swallowed past the bulge of nausea in her throat, but refused to look up when Weiss spoke, clutching at the raised scar on her arm.

Weiss knew that look; it was too easy to recognize, if not externally than internally. Her hand instead moved to cover her mouth, lowering as she asked, “Why didn’t you tell anyone sooner?”

Blake shivered, hands twisting into claws, scratching at the scar, dragging long red lines down its ridges without the shame of the secret to wrangle the habit back down into submission, “I couldn’t. There was no one. Until recently.” Her eyes darted up then abruptly pulled back down before she could look Weiss fully in the face, “Besides that’s just how things are. I thought — I thought you understood that.”

“That’s—” horror crept into Weiss’ expression, eyes widening, “—that’s  _not_  what I meant. The other day when I said — my father may be neglectful, but he never—” Her hand raised to her mouth once more, “The most he ever did was slap me. And once or twice I probably deserved it, to be fair. But Blake,” she knelt before her and tried to catch those amber eyes, ducking her head down, mindful to not actually touch her, “from what you’ve described, this woman — this  _Cinder_  — she’s poisonous. You could have gone to the authorities.”

Blake laughed, harsh and bitter, “That would have accomplished nothing.”

“It would have accomplished  _something_! At least you would have known you could defy her in some way!” Weiss hissed, “She should be put behind bars or worse for what she’s done to you.”

At that Blake’s head snapped up and her amber eyes were bright with purpose, “She saved me. I had nothing — I  _was_  nothing. She found me in the gutter and gave me a home. She may be an awful mother, but she is all I have.”

Weiss met her gaze without flinching. She waited for Blake to finish, then said softly, “But she’s not your mother. She’s a snake who took advantage of an orphaned child.”

Gritting her teeth, Blake bit back a retort and dropped her eyes again with a scowl. Her Semblance writhed almost sullenly, every emotion brought to the surface of her skin for the world to see, a tangled snarl of conflicting thoughts. Fatigue and doubt kept the fully-fledged shadows from sprouting forth in a multi-faceted rage, surrounding Weiss and pressing in on all sides, but only just. They had served as guardians for so long, stripped out of her soul to terrorize any who would bring them harm, more a refraction of light than substance, yet she welcomed them like friends. Blake had seen them as such for years, really.

“Some part of you knows I’m right,” Weiss continued, voice still low, “Else you wouldn’t have told me everything.”

She sounded so caring, too kind, words pliant and open, sincerity a fact rather than a facade; in no world did Blake deserve such kindness, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

Weiss’ eyebrows twitched, angling down into a narrow furrow, “I am mad at you. But being angry does not mean I’m going to—” she raised her hand to lend a gentle touch, but stopped herself before she could make contact, “I would never willingly hurt you.”

“Yes, but I would,” Blake’s voice cracked, her Semblance rasping in thin tendrils, abrasive as pitted wrought iron, “And I already have.”

“If you’re referring to the kiss,” a flush rose to Weiss’ cheeks, but her tone was steady, “I wouldn’t call that a hardship. Far from it.” When Blake just stared at her in disbelief, Weiss huffed and snapped, “I enjoyed it, you idiot. And unless you regret it, I would like to revisit the idea at a later date.”

“I—” fumbling for a response, Blake hesitated. It had never been her place in the past to act, to meet someone halfway. She was used to being told what to do, consent demanded and always expected to be given. Now Weiss was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a response, “I don’t regret it. Kissing you was the first decision I ever got to make.”

Blake wanted to swallow back the words the moment she uttered them. Surely Weiss wouldn’t believe such a confession, not when she had already proven she had a liar’s tongue, razor sharp and meant to sow discord. Nonetheless, there were few other ways to interpret the way the other girl went still, shock parting her lips and giving her the look of a hart impaled by the spear. Prey made vulnerable in an instant with a noose around her heart; wasn’t this what Cinder had wanted the most? A seduction, thorough and all consuming. The consideration that she was the trap instead of the huntress left Blake feeling ill.

“It sounds like we have a lot to talk about when we’re sure you’re safe.” Weiss’ words were a pirouette over thin ice, cautious but offering just enough trust to cling to. “If she sent you here to capture me, to steal from the headmaster, then it can’t be a small undertaking. That leaves a lot of loose threads to unravel and destroy her plans in the process.”

“There’s nothing to be done.” To think months ago she would have taken pride in Cinder’s impending victory, craving the praise that would surely follow for her loyalty. Now Blake wanted to carve the handprint from her skin, flay away the proof that she was so damnably weak. “I just couldn’t take hiding it from you anymore.”

“There’s nothing to be done  _alone_ ,” Weiss insisted, rising to her feet and pacing, the slap of her slippers across the tiled floor a soft staccato to her musing, “We need to tell the others. And then we need to find Ozpin and Goodwitch. Warn them. We can prepare for whatever’s coming.”

“It’s too late,” shaking her head, locks of Blake’s dark mane fell forward across her neck, “Cinder already has everything she needs. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Weiss snapped. She rounded on Blake and seized her shoulders, hoisting her to her feet. The action was firm but in no way cruel, her fingers cool on Blake’s upper arms, thumbs lingering to trace skin, “Get up. We need to mobilize fast. We’re going to wake up Ruby and Yang, and then we’re going to march down to Goodwitch’s quarters and tell her everything. We are not just going to lie down and wait. We’re better than that.  _You’re_ better than that.”

Cinder manipulated and cut, plucking the best parts of people from their chests like sweatmeats to be seared over an open flame and eaten whole. Time spent in Cinder’s presence exsiccated until Blake felt like a hide, tanned and scraped and stretched, relieved of meat and bone. Yet here was a girl with a family name used to terrorize Faunus children with tall tales swapped across bonfires in cedar groves, a girl who showed her nothing but kindness, her eyes flashing with determination, spirit barely contained by her skin — ready as she always was like a bared blade, all cold steel and noble ferocity. Kindness heavy as an ache, clutching Blake through and through, creeping ivy splitting mortar and stone and bringing her foundations crumbling down.

Swallowing past an obstruction in her throat, Blake nodded, “Alright,” she rasped.

It was funny, really. How after years of believing she knew her place, of living beneath the heel of someone so unspeakably merciless for so long, of being exposed to such chronic malice, one word alone could feel like liberation.

 

—

 

The blade of Qrow’s scythe was trapped underneath her heel, torn from its mooring, bits of Dust still sparking where it had once been attached to a heavy handle. He had defended himself well with the remains, wielding it like a staff even as the scent of gunpowder and molten metal warned that the weapon was falling apart. Luck was on the man’s side that it hadn’t simply exploded between his palms, the unabated pressure through the barrel rending through galvanized steel, but that was his only blessing, not enough to save him from a bloody reckoning.

Ozpin had been foolish not to send his ace in the hole any backup, presuming Qrow’s old mockingbird wiles would guard him from her sight. Cinder idly glanced down at her nails, noting a very small chip with distaste as she stepped forward, closing the distance between them until Qrow’s head hung an inch from hers, his breathing shallow. He possessed a remarkable capacity to endure pain, not letting out a single sound even as tendrils of fire held him lashed against the wall, the flames splitting like hydra’s heads to burn whatever bare skin they could reach.

“How many years has it been?” One lacquered nail forced his chin to tilt up, her mouth quirking in amusement at the defiance that burned in silver eyes.

“Not enough.” Qrow’s teeth were tinged with blood, a lock of black hair glued to his brow from sweat. “You know, Cinder, you’re starting to get this little line between your eyes. Stress isn’t good for the soul.”

A flicker of her glowing gaze and the ring on his finger began to burn white hot, scalding past the point of blisters and blackened flesh until a choked, agonized groan was forced past Qrow’s lips. “Perhaps if you had been more vigilant, you wouldn’t have found yourself in this position. A better encryption algorithm perhaps, or the ability to see beyond your own arrogance. You’re not the professor’s favorite boy anymore. His time is over.”

“And yours is beginning?” Qrow’s shoulders shook with a barely restrained laugh. “No amount of Dust in the world is going to fix your mistakes.”

“I haven’t made any mistakes.” Cinder said coolly. “Everything’s been according to plan.”

His mouth twisted into a disbelieving sneer. “Even your sisters—”

Rage set her blood alight, fire spilling from the runes etched in her body like marrow from ruptured bone. She wanted Qrow to burn, but he wouldn’t die, not yet. There was so much that the body could survive, even if it didn’t want to, and there were hours left to educate him on every excruciating detail of that fact. Cinder hummed in amusement as she tasted char on the back of her tongue, the tortured hiss between his teeth replaced by silence, raw and fragile as a thread. Silver had dimmed, lids falling closed with the abject weight of coins upon them. Defeat suited his countenance, truly.

“Perhaps you should worry more about your own family, Qrow. Your nieces go to Beacon, don’t they?”

When he didn’t respond, Cinder patted his cheek. It was a touch cold, but the moment her fingers slipped to his ash-streaked throat, she felt a pulse slow and thready beneath the surface. Perhaps the damage would eventually overcome him in the end, lungs eaten away by smoke as Qrow choked on scorched sputum, but for the meantime he endured, stalwart as a knight hung by his own entrails.

Living bait was always so much more enticing than the dead.


	8. Chapter 8

Here it stood, the long wait, days passed into these final, fragile moments. They fiddled with the edges of clothes, sharpened blades, polished sleek barrels. Little superfluous actions that soothed and soothed poorly, their nerves bundled fibers all fraying together to the rasp of whetstones and the smooth sheen of gun-oil. The air in the auditorium hall remained cold despite the many bodies packed inside, Beacon’s students all crammed together, huddling for warmth and companionable silence during the interim.

Blake’s nose twitched, the scent of cloves and steel thick. The rag Ruby used to clean Crescent Rose was black with filth, yet still she worried at the weapon’s grain in the hopes it would offer consolation, red-tipped hair brushing her jawline, head bowed over the scythe as though in maternal prayer. Close beside her sat Yang, foot and leg bobbing, never able to sit still. The desire to pace crawled beneath her skin; Blake could see it in the way her fingers toyed ceaselessly with her bracers, lilac eyes darting from entrance to entrance, awaiting any sign of movement, any slight excuse to leap into action.

In stark contrast Weiss sat at Blake’s side, a presence as still as a pond in a glade. Studying her askance, Blake wondered how many hours of forced stillness Weiss had endured during her years growing up as the Schnee family’s sole heir, how many sharp rebukes from her father, how many cracked knuckles from unyielding governesses it had taken to tamp down the urge to fidget in a small girl until she was nothing but the picture of perfect poise, quiet unless prompted to be otherwise, trapped in the cage of her own bones, her very bloodline a betrayal to youth’s tameless nature.

Cold blue eyes snapped to her; Weiss had caught her looking. Where other people would duck and glance away, Blake met her stare for stare. The heiress was carved from a glacial bluff, digging mountains with time. If Blake had hoped that something within her would melt, she was wrong; Weiss cocooned herself in ice until her skin could cut glass. There was no anger in her gaze, no tinge of resentment or blame. For all outward appearances she was utterly impassive. Even when she reached out and brushed her fingertips over the back of Blake’s hand, her expression remained unreadable — but her fingers were warm, blood a flush of rose beneath her wrists.

In the distance there surged the steady drone of jets. Glynda was the first to turn her head and look out the large windows of the auditorium, the others following suit, soft words dying on their lips. Airships dotted the horizon like flecks of rain in a coming storm or insects thronging from a stirred nest, growing closer, the hum of wings louder and stronger the scorch of rocket fuel.

“Is that her?” Ruby asked, “ _Cinder_?”

“No,” Blake answered almost immediately, and the others all turned to stare, “That will be Roman. Her footsoldier.”

Blake could not say for sure that Cinder was not in fact on one of those ships, but she knew from past experience and deep in her gut. Heading armies was a place for heroes and generals, men of harmonious worth and genius. Her abjured mother —  _captor, mistress, deceiver_  — was a thing of dark wild places, stone cloven underfoot, a whisper of moonlight through sibilant branches, bloodied, fear a scent on the wind, the hunt alight, alive. Nothing Cinder externalized so much as the chase, the stalk, the stride, gaze pitiless as the sun above blood-stained teeth, venery enfleshed.

Taking control at the head of the auditorium and silencing the growing murmur of concerned students with but a steady look, Glynda projected her voice to every corner of the hall, “Team JNPR on point. Team RWBY,” even across the space from their table to the head of the auditorium, Goodwitch’s green eyes narrowed in on them like a beam, “You’re with me. Everyone else — to your stations. Be smart. Be strong. Be safe.”

The students began to mill, gathering themselves for the fight, but their movements were jerky and taut. Blake knew this sensation well, the familiarity of it all sending a thrill skittering down her spine akin to anticipation. Cinder lurked somewhere deep in the far off mountains, feeding fires with smoke and sending harts racing, tearing through the stygian wood, her keen-scented thralls driving the game to an intended location, a place of terror in their own stomachs, devoured from within.

 

—

 

Two charges toppled the front gate in a cloud of fire-born Dust, steel wrenched free from concrete and baring the protective runes etched into Beacon’s foundation. They were ancient, leftover from the ruins the school was built on top of, when temples and castles dotted the landscape as bastions of survival against the Grimm. Roman had taken the history lesson in stride as much as he tolerated any other droning; all that mattered was that their bombs could tear right through it without a bit of fuss. Such was the beauty of human ingenuity.

“Spread out, dogs, we have a school to lock down.” He pointed his cane to the central fountain, where the sidewalks split off towards dormitories and classrooms. Masked Faunus poured out of the airship behind him, weapons drawn. “Confiscate any weapons and Dust you find, but Cinder’s not too fussed about the students staying alive, so just take care of business.”

Junior stopped alongside him, bazooka propped on one shoulder. “Where do you want us?”

“Once we have the kids corralled, you’ll handle the professors. Smash and grab, Mr. Xiong. Take down the buildings on top of them if you have to. I don’t fancy having to go a few rounds with Glynda Goodwitch, do you?”

“No.” Heavy brows knit, taking in a full view of the campus. Miltia let out an impatient huff from behind, exchanging bored sneers with her sister. “Doesn’t it seem kind of quiet? I thought we were going to hit some resistance in the front.”

“Does the definition of an ambush escape you or were you just dropped as a child?” Roman watched the packs of White Fang grunts approach iron-bound doors, ready to level them in a storm of fire and kinetic energy. “Knock knock, Beacon.”

“Who’s there?” He whirled around at the question, having to look down a foot to make contact with shining turquoise eyes. “Nora!”

There was just enough time to balk at the aesthetics of using pink on a hammer when the weapon swung and his footing was swept out from under him. Aura reacted to heal a shattered nose as Roman fought to untangle himself from the bushes, outraged to find that he had been knocked all the way to the other side of the fountain.

Junior was struggling to get some distance from the fray, swinging the club end of his weapon at a huntsman in green, wielding a pair of submachine guns with the grace of knives and dodging every hulking blow. Bladed heels and razor-sharp claws scraped against opposing shields, a tall redhead back-to-back with a scrawny boy with a sword, their constant push back keeping Melanie and Miltia from closing in for the kill.

Aiming his cane at the boy’s head, a shout drew Roman’s attention over his shoulder. Teams of four were appearing on the tops of conical towers, most of them bearing weapons transformed into rifles. A girl in a beret and sunglasses flashed him a smile from high up above before tapping the shoulder of the rabbit-eared Faunus beside her, who opened the box perilously slung over one shoulder and produced two glass orbs, each glowing with the harnessed power of Dust packed tightly together. They were positioned over half a dozen White Fang ramming at the tower doors, oblivious to the threat about to descend as the grenades were dropped over the lip of the roof.

“Oh, shit.” Scrambling to his feet, Roman turned to call the second pack’s attention, mouth collapsing into a frown as he saw the wood in front of them bulging outward. That was the wrong direction.

The dormitory doors flew open with such force it almost snapped the hinges, sending Faunus sprawling as another team came into view at the stone threshold, matched in dull armor and their leader’s black mace coming down over his head to crush someone’s skull after the quick sweep of a halberd and his comrades’ blades. An explosion rocked the other tower when the grenades exploded, lightning and ice arcing in electrified shards, pinning down anyone it didn’t stun, limbs twitching as weapons were dropped from numb fingers. They were surrounded, the high ground lost unless he could get back on the main frequency and scramble the airships to knock those arrogant brats right off their perches.

“Fall back, you idiots!” Roman yelled, firing off a series of rounds into the fray.

Junior was in a full retreat, blood dripping down his face from a thick gouge along one temple as he aligned the bazooka back towards the destroyed gate where the twins were holding the first team at bay by the skin of their teeth, flipping past the hammer that swung like a pendulum near shifting hands and feet. Keeping them within short range was smart; even if they were surrounded, the amount of damage the hunters could do without hurting each other was suppressed. They were clustered together, just tightly enough to die in a smoking crater, if the entire platform leading to the airship didn’t collapse from under them.

Aiming his cane at the same angle as Junior’s weapon, Roman snapped, “Unload the clip.”

“Gladly.” Thick fingers centered on the trigger. “Melanie! Miltia!”

In tandem, the sisters parted, a sharp twist of limbs sending them flying over twisted steel and out of the way, a barrage of rockets unleashed a second after. Gritting his teeth, Roman squeezed off as many shots as he could into the massive cloud of black smoke, the scent of ozone and copper biting at his nose and mouth. It might have been overkill, but there was nothing like leaving an example for their friends on the towers playing sniper that this wasn’t a training exercise. With the kid gloves taken off, maybe they would show a bit of respect.

As soon as the fog cleared, Roman wanted to spit, rage making him shake. A opaque field, thin and shining like gossamer, encompassed the four hunters, the scraggly blond boy in the center trembling with effort to hold it in place, Aura glowing from the center of gloved hands. They were untouched, triumph in their eyes as twin barrels and the wide mouth of a grenade launcher positioned themselves over the curved notch of a gold-edged shield, its wielder drawing back her arm to throw a javelin.

“Fire again, you—”

He jerked back as the javelin shot forward with impossible speed, burying itself right into Junior’s shoulder. The other man’s arm went limp, knocked off-kilter as the bazooka tumbled out of his grasp, letting out a roar of pain. When the long blade twisted, it sliced through tendons and muscle, emanating a hum that put Roman’s teeth on edge before the javelin pulled free and casually defied gravity to return to a waiting hand, just in time for a flurry of heart-shaped rounds to bounce off cracked cobble with a soft clink and land at their feet.

Throwing himself over the short, jagged fence encasing the garden and fountains only did so much good when his ears were ringing and any sense of balance lost. One hand gripped his cane for support, the other fishing around through scorched white pockets to draw out his scroll. The screen was nearly split in two, whether from the first strike of the hammer or the grenades, but Roman mashed his fingers against the shortcut to the emergency line, blood streaking over glass as the application tried to connect. A hollow laugh left his lips when it immediately went to voicemail, the default tones meant to soothe a caller coming out as jagged static.

“Please—l-leave—a—mess—age—”

Someone’s sword, the hilt bent and exposing the Dust crystal embedded inside, fell over the fence and sliced into the grass just shy of his hand. Roman shoved it away with a rough jerk of his cane, putting the scroll near his mouth. “Whatever your plan B is, I hope you’re ready to use it, Cinder. The front’s not going to goddamn hold.”

More static answered, the call cutting out before he could utter another word.

  
  


—

  
  


Ozpin tracked her among the far-flung trees surrounding Beacon, nowhere near the main assault. No path marked the winding forest, its dusky foliage and gnarled branches enshrouding the glens with thorns and over-ripe fruit. He left a snarl of dead Grimm in his wake, the thicket tangled with their limbs and spattered gore. Strangely, they were giving her a wide berth, crouching low or shying until sensing his presence and reacting with primal, ravenous drive.

Stalking towards a clearing, his every footstep carefully plotted, Ozpin’s approach was silent. His cane held ready, its length doubled in a narrow barrel, one edge extended into a blade that folded over the back third of the weapon like a gentleman’s saber. He crept closer, choosing his route so that he was hidden by the brush and his flank was protected by a half-moon copse of trees. From behind his spectacles, his eyes scanned the area, searching.

“It’s been a long time.”

He whipped around, cane arcing out in an unerring strike, but the position taken specifically so that nobody could sneak up behind him, worked against rather than for him. Cinder slid easily beyond reach behind a tree and Ozpin’s cane collided with the bark, bladed edges sinking into the tortured wood and lodging itself firmly there. With a great wrench, he tried to heave it free. Slipping around the trees, serpent quick, Cinder delivered a blow that sent him reeling into the clearing.

She plucked his weapon from its prison and twirled it between her fingers, a deft flourish. Holding it up, she gazed down its length, appraising. “Such a pity,” she murmured, her hands glowing white hot, melting the cane into a twisted lump of metal, hissing chunks of iron dripping onto the earth, “I was looking forward to a challenge, but you never made a full recovery from our last encounter, did you?”

He reached into his coat breast-pocket, but no sooner had his fingers closed around the handle of a dust-enchanted handgun than Cinder shot a bolt of scarlet flame at his feet. Diving to one side, Ozpin tucked himself neatly into a roll, coming up to his knees at the treeline, weapon drawn and extended before him. He squeezed the trigger, aiming to kill, but in a flurry of red silk she was there. Her foot came down firmly on his wrist, knocking his shot into the ground.

With a fierce smile she crushed the bones of his arm beneath her heel, revelling in his resultant cry of pain. She kicked the pistol away and swooped down to grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back then slamming it back down into a nearby tree. A sickening crack echoed through the area. Cinder tossed his limp body into the center of the clearing, where he landed with a weak groan, one side of his face streaming with fresh blood.

Stalking forward, Cinder crouched before him like a spirit upon an ancient shrine clutched through with ivy and lichen. Her sharp nails traced his cheek, cutting a burning line from temple to the edge of his mouth, eyes lidded yet crowded with intensity. He jerked away with a grimacing sneer. Hands shooting out, she grasped him by the shoulders and along the dismal forest floor dragged him to a nearby tree. There she suspended his body beside that of his friend, lashing wrist to branch, chest to thick trunk, until he hung like game. His toes scraped the air above twigs and roots curling through the loam.

He twisted his neck to see Qrow, but the man’s chest seemed immobile; he was barely breathing.

“He’s more useful to me alive,” Cinder responded to his questioning look. She circled her quarry like the shadow of desert birds, the slow movement of her thighs, the smelted glow of her eyes, fixed and never blinking, “For now.”

Trussed as he was, Ozpin’s mind remained sharp, “How many more must die before you are satisfied? How many more of my friends and family — your family.” He goaded and probed, testing for a response, “ _Your_  own sisters.”

Cinder offered little but indifference in turn. Indeed the glow of runes etched along her skin increased in brightness, as though the memory excited her, alluring blood outpoured by kindred hands, “Some siblings swallow each other whole in the womb. I devoured my sisters in life instead. In truth at least that way they served my purposes.”

A shiver walked the track of his spine and he fought to keep it from showing, but Cinder’s smirk sharpened, all edge, expression alight with the thrill of a hunt, “In truth,” he countered, unable to disguise his blatant disgust, “you failed the moment you lost yourself to Dust.”

“You would diminish your own crimes by pushing all the blame to me?” her voice lowered to a rumble like thunder, snapping with the promise of scalding heat and destruction, “How darkly you dishonor and annul the truth which you claim to serve.”

“It won’t end here.” Pain throbbed up the back of his skull, blood clotting in a crimson seal against shattered bark. “Killing me, killing all of us, won’t change what you’ve become.”

“What you  _made_  me.” Her eyes were starved flames, yearning to break free from their cage of flesh, skin drawn taut over cheekbones and chin. “Pure, elemental fire. A weapon that lives and breathes and burns.”

“You know it was an accident. Dust addiction was always a pos—” Fingers hotter than a brand wrapped around Ozpin’s throat and choked off the next syllable.

“An addiction is a need, a weakness. This—” Plucking a red capsule out of her dress, the glass cracked as soon as Cinder’s touch made contact, crimson grains trickling down onto her palm. Rather than falling to the ground, they were absorbed into her skin, the glow intensifying only to fade seconds later. “—is fuel, lest it take my bone and marrow and blood in its place. Every time it’s fed, it grows, wills itself to something greater.”

Blisters sprouted from his skin when her hand relaxed, leaving nerves raw and exposed. “Because you took more than was needed. Your Aura would have replenished the energy the Dust took, if you had let the experiment progress.”

“Did you think the Grimm were going to be terrified of a few sparks, Ozpin? That hunters would lay aside their weapons and put faith in ancient magics when I could provide nothing but parlor tricks?” Nails scraped under his jaw, cradling it. “I gave you success and you turned from it like a coward.”

Husks. That was all they could be called when he had gone to the home Cinder shared with her family after a panicked message, only to be led to the bedrooms of her older sisters, ash and dying flame crawling up the walls and curtains in pitch black streaks. The runes inscribed on their bodies — no longer intact enough to be called as such in truth, not when they had hardened into char clinging to bone, limbs tangled in the throes of agony — were the only factor that could be used to identify them, magic refusing to die until the last fragments of Aura were devoured and snuffed out.

He had held her like a fool, wiped away the tears Cinder summoned, decrying the scene as a tragedy. Spontaneous combustion from the swell of energy within the runes, blood boiling over as their screams had deafened her ears, leaving her as the only survivor, the lie woven with such precision he hadn’t dared to question it until crates of red Dust began disappearing from the warehouse and private labs funded by the Schnees’ investments, tailoring into Cinder’s power starting to creep off the charts. Where once she struggled to produce a flame strong enough to light a candle, the ability to rend steel and birth an inferno came as easily as breathing, strong enough to set anything ablaze.

“They were afraid of what they were becoming, Ozpin. That they would be treated like freaks, monstrosities little better than the soulless beasts you wanted them to slay. I was only thinking of your greater good, but you called it  _done_  and over with, leaving me solitary and detested. Who would believe a woman that said you carved runes into her flesh, transcribed from scrolls the world thinks have been destroyed for centuries?”  

Everything had been condemned to an SDC vault, trapped beneath the earth in a place where even he didn’t possess a key. Human knowledge, left from the first days of Dust and war, had a price that wasn’t worth paying. It was only later that Qrow uncovered a crumbling tablet, filling in the crucial gap between method and madness, telling of the heroes who sacrificed themselves to nature, holding conflagrations, thunderstorms, and blizzards within the deteriorating confines of their flesh until they committed suicide inside warrens of Grimm to beat back the bestial tide. The process wasn’t meant to leave behind any survivors.

Unfortunately, the punishment for their hubris was neither swift nor sure. Shuttering the experiment had only provoked Cinder’s wrath, her vengeance written in the burn that proved beyond healing, turning his cane from weapon to crutch. Qrow had labeled her escape unfortunate, but wagered that she wouldn’t live long enough to return again. When months of quiet passed into years, Ozpin had considered the matter closed, ending a dark chapter in their shared history. To be wrong like this, he supposed, was to forget how deep a reservoir hate could carve into the soul, providing the spite to breathe where flesh might fail. Still, time remained an ally on his side.

“Is that how you mean to punish Schnee as well?” He raised a brow in dismissal, angled to suggest the gambit had no chance of succeeding. “Murdering his daughter since he keeps himself behind a fortress you don’t have the strength to conquer? She knows nothing about what was done.”

“Ignorance is no excuse. I’ve taught  _my_  daughter as such.” Embers glittered in Cinder’s smile, the oxygen in a soft inhale threatening to catch alight, “But I won’t see the heiress harmed until her father surrenders what he’s hidden. He can watch her burn as penance right before his eyes, and when this is done, I’ll make my child the same creature you’ve made me. Another success to serve as your eulogy.”

“You’re not one of my successes, Cinder.” Ozpin held her stare, fatigue giving an amusing amount of relief from fear. “You’re one of my failures.”

Fury kindled in her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath, the heat in her body boiling the inhalation to a mottled red and orange bellow beneath her skin like a forge. Her hands clenched into fists, crushing the many capsules held there. Heat swirled up her arms, wrapping her limbs — a net, a trammel of flame — flooding her with power to excess. Both eyes seared yellow and white, wild and frenzied as a desert storm.

His howl of agony was enough to startle prey from brush and tree alike, but it was the silence after that bid them to run until the stench of a burnt offering ascended from the air.


	9. Chapter 9

A red haze dripped over the trees, crimson leaves still clinging by thin threads to blackened branches, the life inside them extinguished by a fire so powerful that they may as well have been hollow from within. Ash flickered with every touch of the wind, stale and warm as it whisked away remnants of scarlet grass and exposed roots with the hard, dark edges of flint. Each breath Ozpin took was half gasp and half prayer, rattling down to his lungs from a raw, burned throat. His entire body was a nerve exposed, sparks from the bonds holding him to the trunk dancing over blistered flesh as an idle torment. Yet, there was some shard of hope, one last piece of certainty to hold onto.

It seemed as if there was a storm approaching.

Cinder herself was surrounded in a wreath of flame that slid over her limbs like a serpent, well-gorged on every grain of Dust fed into her skin. She had grown bored of torturing him after some time and could do little to Qrow without striking the last beat from his heart, but impatience made her shoulders rigid, carriage a frame of steel that cradled primordial heat, glowing white-hot through the confines of branded skin. What she was waiting for, he could only hazard a guess from any number of possibilities, but as long as the two of them still lived, even hung like cattle for the slaughter, there was time. It was a fickle thing to rely on when it only ever wished to go forward, but seconds strained into minutes before a cool gust swept through the forest, the clouds above growing darker as they wove together.

In a place like Forever Fall, dyed the same colors no matter the season, seeing even a glimpse of green was a mercy. Lines of energy coalesced in the air to form a glyph a split second before Cinder turned and sent a scorching burst in Glynda’s direction, the protective field shattering into a thousand pieces but leaving the huntress behind it unharmed. A blue-tinged vial and the sudden twitch of the riding crop sent a wave of razor-sharp hail through the air, but it melted and sputtered as soon as the ice came in contact with Cinder’s Aura, swallowed down like another offering of Dust. Ozpin looked to Qrow, searching for some hope that he had clawed his way back to consciousness; silver eyes fluttered as if in a trance, breath quick but labored.

There was no victory to be found in the constant exchange — fire for ice, fire for air, fire muffled by the weight of earth collapsing to smother it — but he watched as Glynda gained ground inch by inch, even if the cost was expending more power than most hunters would ever be able to dream of. She was his finest student, an elemental marvel, and Cinder knew how much that strength was valued, pouring rage into every strike, intent on demolishing the weapon right out of Glynda’s grasp. Without a focus, her Semblance was still a stunning display, but it wouldn’t be enough under the brunt of this channeled fury. When the the hurtled trunk of a broken tree was batted like an arrow from the air, Cinder’s smile grew brighter, as if she had just tasted the blood of the wounded.

“How long do you think you can play keepaway with me, Glynda?” The question was followed with a glyph lit ablaze and wrenched apart. “I’m afraid Ozpin’s life is no longer available to bargain for, despite your insistence.”

“You wouldn’t take my life for his?” Glynda asked, tone level. Ozpin knew when the anger was scourged from her voice, that was when it had settled to the core of her heart, but there were only a few more steps to take.

Cinder’s laugh fell like a curse over his ears, dark and mocking. “Your surrender would be a waste. No one deserves to pay for a man’s sins but the man himself.”

“At least you would have earned something in the trade.” The words were softer than they should have been, were they directed to the huntress in front of her. Ozpin held Glynda’s stare for a fraction of a second and nodded his head.

Debris, from the smallest splinters of wood to shattered boulders and ancient trees demolished in their brutal battle, rose as one and flew towards Cinder with all the force of a bullet. Her Aura subsumed her in fire like a cocoon, everything that dared to try and penetrate the shield burned down to a whisper of ash. He couldn’t help but grimace at the heat pouring off her, threatening to strip yet another layer from his flesh, but when the flames vanished and spent themselves back into the air, Glynda had vanished and the bonds holding Qrow were empty.

A harpy’s shriek tore itself from Cinder’s throat as she slammed her fist into the tree, its weakened wood crumbling to bits under the blow. When she turned to face him, the whites of her eyes had been devoured by gold.

“So that was her trick.” Cinder hissed, closing the distance between them once more. “Yet she claimed my bait rather than my sacrifice. Does she care for you so little, Ozpin?”

He would have laughed, but the sound came out as a rasp. “I asked her to save my best friend and protect all of my students, Cinder. She accomplished the former and I have faith that there is no greater guardian for the latter.”

“Where should I hang you then, martyr? From this tree to know your judgement? From your tower for your hubris?” Each question was sharp as a needle, brittle and pushed beneath his skin.

A drop of rain fell into her upturned palm, and then another. Ozpin followed that forge-bright stare to the sky, where the slate gray clouds had taken hold; the peace lingered for a second longer before the soft rainfall became a torrent and the constant pressure of fire against his skin was soothed by just a touch. Cinder’s mouth quirked in faint displeasure, fighting with wry amusement as it made contact with the runes emblazoned over her body, crisp pops and snaps evaporating the moisture in an instant. She was more than nature intended, more than was ever meant to be chained to a human shell.

“Is this irritation her final insult?” Her lips pursed into a tight line. “If you could replicate what you had done to me, Ozpin, I’m sure she would have been your next subject. Perhaps she could have claimed the cold for herself and doused the world in winter.”

“Glynda learned the price of power where you scorned the teaching.” Copper flooded Ozpin’s tongue when he coughed, blood staining the inside of his mouth. “You will not take Beacon, nor those within.”

“I only need one of your students, in truth. The sisters are ripe for suffering as well, but the girl you welcomed with open arms and without guile has always been mine. How else could someone who has never been inside the walls of a school pass your tests without having to stop and catch her breath? My education was far more enlightening than yours.”

The crunch of wet leaves betrayed the whisper of approaching footsteps, yet there was no surprise or lament to be found in Cinder’s eyes. Invited guests, then, but it wasn’t until he could make out four different gaits that a black bow came into view, Blake’s hand clutching the sleeve that guarded one arm.

Fate wouldn’t see them cleaved cleanly apart, but all he could do was lay trust at her feet before life slipped from his limbs.

 

—

 

They arrived just in time for the torrential downpour, the storm brewing above them like a witch’s cauldron, thick and soupy.

Cinder’s hair was a rain-slicked mess plastered to her cheeks and neck, and the enclosure smelled of moss and wet ash. Faintly through the sheets of rain they could see Ozpin’s body hung limply from a far tree, while she paced before him like an impatient lioness. Cinder crackled like an embodied flame, tendrils of steam peeling back from her skin as weathered bark curls from the tree. From within she seethed, fingertips burnt black with pitch, runes cracked and cleaving fiery faults in her skin. 

Her gaze fell upon them with the weight of a physical blow and Blake wondered how she ever thought she could rebel. This plan was doomed to fail from the moment Cinder was allowed to exist in the same vicinity. Desperation carved a wicked path from the nape of her neck to the tender backs of her knees, and the world folded, the cold forest floor falling away until all that remained was Cinder shining through the murky downpour like a lantern casting light across a swampy river.

Sucking in a breath at the sight of them, the splintered fissures across Cinder’s skin swelled, fed with amber heat like a bellows. She strode forward, her path a monarch’s spread with wine-dipped tapestry, “Blake,” she murmured and smiled, slow, triumphant and welcoming.

At Cinder’s voice Blake’s shoulders twitched, ears alert, every muscle held in tight suspense like a sleuthhound, gaunt, eager and well-trained. Cinder arrested her attention, dragged her body through henbane and heather, and Blake looked at her like one lost, starved as the day they had met.

“My daughter is here at last,” Cinder cocked her head and the rain lashed her sharp jawline, her words like the dart of swallows, strange and dark.

She reached out as though to beckon a dog forward, hand outstretched, wrist exposed to a wary animal’s hesitant nose. Blake knew she should shrink from Cinder’s touch but any dissent died in her throat where she choked on the words rehearsed, reused, watered down as a honeyed libation. She was a traitor thrice over — to the White Fang, to the Faunus, and now to the one who raised her up from being stuttering and afraid. Hadn’t she done enough, bringing the others here to the slaughter? Did she have to choose again?

"Cinder." Ruby’s finger was a centimeter from Crescent Rose’s trigger. "This stops right now."

"It’s always inspiring to see such heroism in the young. What a shame you missed seeing your uncle, but he was taken to a better place, unlike the illustrious headmaster." The mockery echoed like a chorus in Blake’s head; Ozpin was painfully still.

"What did you do to Qrow?" Yang snarled.

No answer was given but a smile and Blake’s heart sunk, dread seizing her gut and twisting. He was supposed to be here with Ozpin, he was supposed to have been saved. What were they even doing? This was useless, hopeless.

When Cinder came to a halt just a few paces away — standing now in the center of the clearing, spine steely and deep-dyed — Blake’s hand flew to Gambol Shroud’s hilt over her shoulder. The arch of a cool eyebrow, and Cinder leveled her gaze, amused.

“Blake,” Weiss whispered, standing just to her side, Myrtenaster’s point held fixed on Cinder, “Just remember the plan. We can do this.”

Blake couldn’t find the will to respond, her attention still wholly riveted upon the scarlet figure at the center of the charred glade. The creak of leather as her fingers tightened around a black hilt, the rustle of embers exposed to water, the reek of woodsmoke all around, saturating the air. A soft tremor seized her joints, body held in tight suspense, waiting.

Cinder’s eyes flared bright, steeped with triumph and the draught of anticipation. Gaze locked with Blake’s own, she commanded, voice firm yet mild, “Kill her.”

Gambol Shroud snapped from its sheath, and Blake whirled. Black ribbons coiled around Weiss’ pale throat and tightened, ends held taut in Blake’s fist like a whip. Cinder brooked no defiance and it was only in Blake’s nurture to obey.

“Do it,” Cinder hissed, flame like living cloth, draped and slithering, “There is no gentler way than this.”

Blake hesitated. She could feel Weiss’ every gasping inhalation through the silky length of Gambol Shroud, her pulse hammering like a doe’s in flight. Still, Weiss looked at her through a mask of serenity, eyes glinting like pale shards. The others, however, were not so calm.

“What do you think you’re  _doing_?” Yang yelled, panic igniting her eyes a glowing red. The air around her stirred with the telltale signs of fire and smoke.

“Yang, you need to stop shouting,” Weiss said, low and even.

Gauntlets whirred, followed by the click of shotgun cartridges fitting into place. Yang’s Aura continued to expand, flickering brightly behind Weiss. Blake’s gaze darted from her to Weiss and back, ears pinned flat to her skull.

“I think you should do what she says,” Ruby insisted to Yang. Crescent Rose loomed at a sharp angle, ready for combat, yet worry pinched at Ruby’s face as she tried keeping her attention on Cinder while simultaneously mitigating her sister’s mounting distress and the imminent disaster among her team.

“No way!” Yang shouted, nails biting into her palms, crouched to jump forward at the slightest movement, “We need to attack  _now_!”

“Blake,” Weiss whispered, voice rasping past the would-be garotte. She swallowed thickly, “Don’t do this.”

Jaw tightening, Blake blinked furiously in an attempt to clear the haze.

“I gave you an  _order_ ,” Cinder growled from behind, and she sounded closer than before, her tone deep and almond-bitter, a subterranean rumble from her throat.

Slowly Weiss’ free hand reached up and touched the ribbon at her neck. The line that tethered them slackened just slightly, the loosening of Blake’s fist, the cautious upward tilt to her chin. Weiss felt it more than she saw it, but the others only saw Cinder’s reaction — still it was enough to alert them that the playing field had changed.

Cinder’s face was a valley of micro-expressions, small shifting grains from the rocky slope come to rest in slate riverbeds. She slipped from exult to ice in a moment, rigid as the parabolic limbs of frost-gripped cedar groves, then to flickering ire. With a manner mercurial and enthralling, she looked how legends were described — hard crimson backbone and glinting silver spurs, statuesque, a mountainous deity of hemlock and hellhounds.

Rearing back, “You—!” she spat sparks, each syllable the strike of a hammer on folded steel, “—useless child!”  

Fangs bared, the grim teeth fed upon her flesh like a pyre, the sting of wrath swelling, shrilling, urged on high. Heat battled the storm into a shimmering mirage of dewy humidity, the clearing leaping with spears of lambent flame. The reddened scales of the blaze devoured Cinder at the edges, whittling her form away — serpent tongues rasping white and gold — until she was hewn, sculpted from fire and bone.

Blake could feel the heat on her back. It burned and pricked her skin even where not exposed. With a sharp jerk she retracted Gambol Shroud, the ribbons smoothly wrapped back into place. Immediately Ruby sped to the fore, Crescent Rose whirling around her in a blur of red and black, and the oddly comforting smell of gun oil. Weiss and Yang stepped up to either side of Blake, Yang eager and fierce, Weiss balanced and composed.

A burst of fire swarmed from Cinder’s hands, erupting with a boom like thunder. Together Weiss and Yang jumped forward to parry the concussive blow, one with a counter propelling surge of fire and shotgun shells, the other with a wave of ice that vaporized with a shrill wail like iron skittering across stone. Ruby dashed forward with a well-timed, well-aimed strike, only for Cinder to deflect with a swipe of her clawed hands.

She sent Ruby sprawling away with a backhand that belched a molten fountain, spilling magma-red to the ground and coalescing there. Weiss neutralized it with a wave of frost, hardening the substance along the ground to a sleek obsidian. With a burnished glance, Cinder struck, serpent-quick, Myrtenaster heating from tip to pommel and warping until Weiss yelped and dropped it from scorched hands. Yang and Ruby dashed along the outskirts of the clearing, avoiding the bursts of fire clawing their heels, shrieking at their calves, hungry to overtake them — Yang’s own Aura a bright gold amidst the white and crimson inferno. Cinder’s eyes tracked their passage, their fleet flanking maneuver cut to pieces as she propelled herself around, jets of flame pluming at her hands, eager for the strike, the blood, the kill.

As she turned, ready to cast a sweeping tide of fire across the glade, Weiss surged forward, grasping Cinder’s forearms and holding tight. With a fierce snarl, expression wild, Cinder bloomed with scorching heat, the stench of burning flesh accompanied by an agonised cry. Still Weiss did not allow Cinder to wrest from her grasp no matter how much she seared and strained. They wrestled for but a moment — Cinder writhing like a sea creature wreathed and risen from the deep, splattering sheets of flame with each twist of her powerful form — but a moment was all they needed.

In a blur of shadow Blake appeared behind her. Cinder’s neck twisted around to look over her shoulder, teeth flashing in a rictus, mouth brimming with slag. An upward thrust. A gasp ripped from her. The tip of Gambol Shroud’s blade jutted through her back and out above her sternum.

Blake’s hands shook, her breath a shiver. Blood rushed in her ears, a steady bruit like the mournful beat of drums atop a fallen city’s walls, flames scattered between the citadels and sepulchers. The billowing fires retracted within Cinder and died, the slow whittling of embers as she coughed and choked on clots of gory dross. With a special brand of horror, Blake watched the light dim beneath Cinder’s skin. She didn’t notice when Weiss finally pulled away to curl her injured hands to her chest, and the only thing keeping Cinder upright was the weapon in her hands, arms quaking with the strain. Cinder’s pale feet bent at the ankle along the silt, muddy puddles lapping at her soles. Her slack body slouched at the edge of Gambol Shroud like prey upon the end of a spear. Blackened fingers twitched intermittently, and the irrational fear that Cinder was still alive washed over Blake like a sudden flood.

Cinder’s body slumped to the ground and Blake reared up with Gambol Shroud in hand once more. To the dead her snarling cry rang loud — plain the living’s treachery — the dirge for a mother slain. She chopped and severed, scoring deep wounds, and with every gash she was convinced Cinder would pick her body up from the ground and glare scornfully down at her, full of furious glory and vengeance. Spurred into a terror, a frenzy, Blake slipped in the mud and fell to her knees, scrambling forward to continue her onslaught, relentless in her starvation, her absolute appetite for liberation.

She could not have defied Cinder for anything else. Desperation drove her here, sent her fleeing like droves of game through the woods, but in the end hunger did what sorrow could not.

Through the squelch and creak of Gambol Shroud’s blade — brought down again and again, slashing, hacking at Cinder’s limbs and torso — the sound of Weiss’ muddy white boots through the wet grass could be heard. She approached Blake slowly and placed a soft hand to her neck. The blade stuck, cloven in marrow no matter how hard Blake wrenched at its slippery red hilt. She dropped her shoulders from Weiss’ touch and gathered Cinder into her arms, lowering her trembling mouth to the back of Cinder’s skull, choking through tears on the hair dark and dripping with rain water. She cradled Cinder’s drained and bleeding body, clutching that same head she had wasted, and pressing feverish kisses to her cold temple.

Blake could bury her body, wrap it in an entangling shroud and feed her to the ravenous pyres, but always some part of Cinder would remain and never die.

The trees stood stark and branchless as parapets, the glade a smoking crater. Rain thinned the blood smeared across Blake’s arms and hands. She felt gentle hands pry her away from the ruined corpse, then into Weiss’ warm embrace. Through the fog of tears she could see over the rain-drenched red of Weiss' collar to Yang and Ruby carefully untying Ozpin from his perch, lowering his body to the soiled earth where his chest rose and fell with thready gasps.


	10. Chapter 10

After the battle time ran, flowing thin as water through a sieve, catching nothing, no moments large or thick enough to stick in the mesh. After all that destruction and death,  _her_ death — Blake could not bring herself to say her name, would only allow herself stolen moments in the blackest witching hours to think it, a hesitant desperation in those recollections, cupping her hands beneath a tap and grasping at the flow there — Blake felt unanchored. Even in death, Cinder enchanted time like the desert heat, her very memory a distant shimmering mirage.

She had refused to leave before burying Cinder’s body beneath the twisted limbs of that same tree from which Ozpin and Qrow had been hung. Some nights she dreamt of returning to that charred glade, flooded with rainfall, and there she would find Cinder clapping a gnarled evergreen branch between her talons, flanked by smoky torches and attended by a fierce court of ghost-eyed Grimm. There like a drowned queen Cinder reigned from beyond the grave, deathless, a guardian of deep, wild, ruinous places.

In her absence Blake sought heat, the presence of flame. Most often she could be found huddled by one of the fireplaces in the library. She always held a book but never read it, instead clutching it beneath one arm while she curled up in an overstuffed chair and stared into the fire. Once, three days after the battle, she had arrived after dinner to find the fireplace cold, its walls dim and licked black with soot. She sought a librarian and demanded it be lit, waiting for the logs to be piled on and pacing behind the kindly groundskeeper who sweated nervously in her shadow, hands slipping on the match as he bent over the tinder. He saw no reason to light the fireplaces, seeing how all students did not have classes for another week and a half; the battle had delayed the school’s innermost workings for two weeks, during which time students and staff alike worked together to repair damages.

Yet it suited her, this empty catacomb of dusty tomes. The soothing quiet. She would find herself idly toying with the scar on her arm, never enough to give relief to the constant itch. The desire to scratch would flare whenever she saw Weiss’ bandaged hands during meals. The heiress would fumble and grumble with her cutlery, stooping to shovel food gracelessly into her mouth and kicking Yang under the table when she laughed at her. Blake hated those moments most. Everyone falling back into old habits, eager for smiles and reconstruction while from the shadows she watched, trapped in her own state of disrepair.

After the fifth day, when Weiss had her bandages removed and Ozpin was finally able to sit up in his hospital bed without any assistance, the itch on Blake’s arm was too much to ignore. She took one brief look at the shiny pink skin of Weiss’ hands and knew the wounds would scar and never truly fade. Meanwhile Weiss considered them with a fretful sort of fascination, running her nails softly over her fingers and huffing with a contemplative frown.

“I’ll take to wearing gloves,” she proclaimed to anyone who would listen, “as soon as they’re fully healed.” She even bought for herself several pairs of gloves in preparation. They were long lady-like lengths of satiny material, sewn with discrete bands of grip so that her hands would not slip on Myrtenaster’s hilt. She lay them out on her bed in neat rows like barrows, fussing over which outfits she would pair with them. Blake couldn’t stand to watch. It felt too macabre a display.

Instead she fled through the halls of Beacon, not knowing who or what it was she was searching for until she stumbled across it. In an open space, Yang was conversing freely with Pyrrha while in the background Nora, Ren, and Jaune helped take down a damaged column at Oobleck’s blustery instruction. Blake approached slowly and stopped a good few paces away from the group, observing and unobserved.

“Timber!” Nora cried cheerfully as with a great strike of her hammer the pillar rocked and came crashing down. The earth shuddered and dust leapt into the air.

“Miss Nikos!” Oobleck called, waving, “You’re up!”

Pyrrha patted Yang good-naturedly on the shoulder before trotting towards the wreckage. Stance wide, she stopped before the remaining metal stump and uprooted it with a great heave of her Semblance. Yang hung back and watched, arms crossed, waiting to be directed into action.

Blake felt almost guilty for coming here. She should have spoken directly to Weiss. She should have had the courage to face her teammates as more than her former self, this foundationless shade. And yet here she was.

She stepped up to hover by Yang’s elbow and allowed her feet to make noise to announce her presence. Yang blinked at her, those lilac eyes surprised, questioning, but — as always — open, “Oh, hi there, partner!”

Blake offered a weak excuse for a smile in return, “Can we talk?” she jerked her head away from the others, shooting them a surreptitious glance to determine if they had noticed her. Thankfully they hadn’t; that or they were kind enough to pretend otherwise.

“Sure,” Yang replied immediately, looking concerned. Blake avoided her eye as they walked to a more secluded area behind a remarkably unharmed hedge — the last thing she wanted was to see the sympathy shining in her friend’s face, all too sincere. She was as ham-fisted with sincerity as ever, if not more. Receiving it felt like taking too large a bite, unable to chew or spit it out, instead stuck with her own mouthful of greed and feeling her gorge rise, swelling in response.

Once safely hidden from prying gazes behind the hedge, however, the light breeze was also blocked. Here amid the wreckage of Beacon Academy, Yang reeked of woodsmoke and recent forest fires. Her long curls burned golden in the midday sunlight. She was radiant. She was an effigy. She smelled like home, like—

Blake thought she might be sick.

“What is it?” Yang asked, “Are you alright?”

Blake released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, as if to ingest that taste of pitch and smoke, “Nothing. I’m fine. I’m—” she swallowed and tried to take a smaller breath, tried to block the very scent from her nose, “I’m sorry.”

Yang said nothing while Blake continued to fumble for the right words.

“I’m sorry about this. All of this.” She cast her hand behind her, gesturing to the rubble around them, “I should have been more honest with you. I—” she looked down and compressed to urge to scratch at her scar, Cinder’s handprint imbedded in her flesh for the remainder of her life, “—I should have been a better partner. You’ve always been so good to me. You deserve better.”

For a long moment Yang was silent and then, “That woman,” she began slowly, and Blake felt hot fingers walk a scalding track up her spine, “she hurt you for a long time, right?”

The air was too hot, the scent of sparks and kindling clustering thick. Blake couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Instead she nodded curtly, feebly, and Yang just looked at her.

She trembled, waiting for the blow. She almost wanted it, wanted to be struck, to be burned, to be spat upon with invectives, to be reminded of her place, her failures —  _How unfortunate, how ill-omened to be cursed with such a daughter_. Yang was looking at her with unreadable eyes and Cinder lurked in Blake’s shadow, seated at the head of the devil’s table, mouth bloodied, whispering —  _You killed me_.

Before she knew what was happening there was movement and a sudden warmth. Her face pressed into the soft skin of Yang’s shoulder and heavy arms wrapped around her in a crushing embrace. Yang sniffed as though through tears and growled, “Next time you apologize it better be because it’s  _actually_  your fault.” But when Blake tried to protest, Yang’s hug only tightened.

At last she pulled back and wiped at her cheeks, “Besides we both have plenty of time together to work at being better partners.” She punched Blake’s shoulder, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

 

—

 

The day before classes began, her scroll pinged with a terse message.  _Ms. Belladonna, please come to my office at your earliest convenience._ Polite as it was framed, dread carved a pit in the center of Blake’s gut, ice-cold and hollow. While everyone had been busy cleaning up the courtyard and enjoying the brief suspension of their courses until the last of the police tape and bullet casings were swept away, the cheer was a calm before a storm, when blame would settle and eyes avert her way. She was a traitor walking among them, the stain of blood deeper than her skin, and bitter questions lingered like bile on the back of her tongue; if Cinder’s death was matricide, what did that make everything else inflicted upon her for so many years? If it wasn’t, why did her chest still feel numb, heart existing as nothing more than a weak, sluggish creature?

Blake couldn’t find the will to take her books from under Yang’s bedposts. Surely when she was expelled, they would need to be removed, but even looking at the leather-bound volumes stung, a venomous puncture; the tomes were Cinder’s gifts, after all, holding a precarious fate right above her head. After washing her uniform and leaving it folded at the end of the bunk, that corner of the room looked empty. How easy it was to cut herself out of the place she had lived for weeks, simple as a surgeon flensing rot from a limb; the others — her  _team_  — deserved better than a broken shell wielding a criminal’s blade and confined to the shadows.

Ruby and Yang spent the morning preparing to visit Qrow, promising they would return on the last airship before sundown while Weiss disappeared with a brusque click of her heels and tilt of her chin. Her absence was heralded with an uncharacteristic apology and Myrtenaster weighing heavy on her left, fingers wrapped in supple doeskin gloves lingering near the barrel. Even if they hadn’t planned it, the solitude was a comfort; no one was here to see the pacing or the constant clawing at the scar beneath the sleeve as she forced the dark flickers of Aura back beneath her skin. Once a veneer of calm returned, Blake left the dorms at a hard clip, shoes striking the wooden floor as if expecting the boards to shatter.

A few students slipped by in the halls without a word, stepping out of the way rather than daring to cross her path. Keeping her shoulders back and head held high was more about clinging to some faint shred of dignity than any sort of pride, but the facade cracked as soon as she saw Goodwitch’s office, the door dark and imposing. It would be lucky if she came and left without being escorted out in handcuffs, much less walked out of the grounds personally. With a prayer that it would be locked, Blake reached for the knob and turned it, not finding a bit of resistance.

When she entered, Goodwitch was standing near the window, reading something off the screen of her scroll. Dashing back out almost seemed viable until their eyes locked in the reflection and Blake found herself on the spot, pinned straight through.

“I had hoped I would speak to you before dinner.” Goodwitch gestured to one of the carved chairs in front of her desk, bedecked with brass. “Please, sit.”

“I’d—” Clearing her throat, Blake’s spine straightened. “I’d rather stand.”

Rather than a sharp comment about disrespect or worse, the only response was a blink of bemusement. “I can’t say the same, considering I’ve been on my feet all day, Ms. Belladonna, but as you were.”

As soon as Goodwitch was back behind the desk, that stare leveled her way, concern chipping away at a look that started out impassive, distant. “Professor Ozpin and I spoke last night in regards to your attendance here at Beacon.”  
  
Blake sucked in a breath without meaning to. No matter how much she braced herself, prepared for the inevitable, it still hurt. Tears rose to the corner of golden eyes before she shoved the burning tension back down, forced both hands to relax from stiffened fists. She would find somewhere else, a place to survive; it was one of the first lessons she’d learned with the White Fang, on the streets, in Cinder’s care. With enough will to live, anything could be endured, although without a purpose, the point of doing so seemed obscured at best.

“He wanted to know if you would be leaving or staying on as a hunter-in-training. If you decided to depart, we would need to allow a student to join late in the term to ensure that Ms. Xiao Long has a partner and that can take some time to arrange.”

The words took a moment to process. If she  _wanted_  to? “I don’t understand. I was—I saw the police here speaking to you in the courtyard.”

“And they were informed that Cinder Fall was killed attempting to assault school grounds by a team of students in self-defense. Considering the other circumstances surrounding the attack and the headmaster’s witness statement, no charges have been pressed.” Over the frame of gray-rimmed glasses, Goodwitch raised a brow. “Even without his input, I would encourage you to stay here.”  
  
“Why?” Guilt roiled in Blake’s stomach, the question nearly spat out. “Why would you want me here after everything that’s happened?”

“Regardless of the origins of your training, you are already a skilled warrior. With the lessons we can provide here, you could become a force to be reckoned with against Grimm. No matter how well it seems we hold our borders, there are never enough hunters in a time of crisis.”

The lines of tension around Goodwitch’s mouth faded, then deepened.

“And speaking for myself, Ms. Belladonna — Blake — you were a child who was wronged gravely, beyond measure, and some of that is because the man who mentored me chose to experiment with forces beyond his reach. He may have been held accountable in some aspects, but I won’t lay blame at the feet of your fear and pain when you had no other choice.”

A dozen emotions tangled in Blake’s mind, starting with fear and building into defiance, wondering what Goodwitch could possibly know what it was like being under Cinder’s thumb, driving a blade into her  _mother’s_  heart, and just that word brought nausea to the fore, but so did the fact that someone might actually care about her future, want her to have one. Everyone knew the name Glynda Goodwitch, whether they admired or cursed it, a huntress who could summon a hurricane or withstand one with just as much grace.

This time, the tears wouldn’t withdraw, trailing down either side of her face in hot, stubborn lines. They blurred Blake’s vision until she felt something soft press against one hand, blinking past the swell of salt to see a handkerchief hovering in the air, held by the invisible grasp of Goodwitch’s Semblance. She wiped her face in hard strokes, hoping to scour any sign of the crying away, but it only made more tears come, a well refilling itself over and over.

“I would—” Blake gulped, hearing the rasp in her voice. “I’d like to stay, yes.”

A smile, small but seemingly genuine, appeared. “Excellent. I expect you to be on time for class tomorrow with the rest of your team. Perhaps you could take notes for Ms. Schnee if her hands aren’t up to the task yet.”

 _Weiss._ She still had to talk to Weiss. “Sure.”

“Off you go, then.” Glynda said, tilting her head towards the door. “You can return that to me later when it’s no longer needed.”

“Alright.” Finding her bearings, Blake took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

When the door to the office closed behind her, she wobbled in place, knees weak. When the truth felt more like elation and less like a blow to the chest, Blake started to walk, heading right for the dorms. The team —  _her_  team — needed to know that she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Maybe, when she found the strength, they could help her burn those books and replace them with new ones.

—

She went hunting for Yang, Ruby, and Weiss only to arrive in their room to find one of their party missing. When she burst through the door, chest tight and swollen with the strain of reigning in her elation — it was almost too good to be true, and in the back of her mind she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop — the sisters peered over from their places. They looked like they were just ready to head out, Yang adjusting the braces so that they rested more comfortably on her wrists, Ruby collapsed and half hanging upside-down from her bed.

“Hey, Blake!” Ruby waved, “Good timing! We just got back.”

“Hey,” Blake said, sharp eyes scanning the area, neck craning to see that the bathroom was empty, “Where’s Weiss?”

Yang shrugged, “No idea. She hasn’t returned from that meeting with her mysterious father. You know,” she turned to Ruby and jabbed a finger in her direction, “you still owe me ten Lien if he turns out to be not real.”

 _Father._  Why would he be here? There could only be one reason. Crestfallen, Blake tuned out their sibling bickering. This was it. The other shoe. She should have spoken to Weiss earlier. She shouldn’t have avoided her. She should have—

Her life was turning into a series of misbegotten ‘should haves’ it seemed.

“Why?”

Blake blinked, realizing Ruby was addressing her, “Oh. I just — well, I was really hoping to tell you all together as a team to be honest but,” she spread her hands wide, “they’re not expelling me.”

Yang beamed. Ruby squealed and leapt from the bed to dart forward for a hug, “That’s so great! Ooh, that’s wonderful!” Ruby hopped up and down in place, the top of her head jutting into Blake’s chin, “Ow! Sorry!” she groaned, then gasped, “We should have a party!”

Managing a soft smile while rubbing her chin with a wince, Blake admitted, “I’d like that.”

“You coming with us to dinner?” Yang asked, striding towards the door.

“I,” Blake hesitated, “think I’ll wait.”

Shrugging, Yang said, “Suit yourself. C’mon, Ruby.” Her sister was out the door in a flood of roses — food still one of her great motivators — but before Yang followed she placed a warm comforting hand on Blake’s shoulder, “We’ll celebrate when Weiss gets back. Promise.” And with a smile and a wave they were gone.

Blake stood at the entrance of the room, staring around the empty space. That elation which had ballooned like a wineskin full and sweating with a fine vintage, suddenly puddled at her feet on the floor. She could stay here and wait for them to return. Something about that pricked, though. It felt too much like a dog waiting for its master to arrive home. The thought of returning to the library sprang to mind, but she squashed it. No. She would not allow herself to do that again.

So with a sigh she turned from the room and closed the door behind her, a soft click and tumble of locks.

 

—

 

Dusk stained the horizon a dull purple, sweeping to a bruised black. Weiss shuddered against the encroaching chill but did nothing to ward herself against it. By the edge of the pond — shattered at one end from the battle — she waited for the cold to embrace her like a balm, to leach away the memory of scorching heat. Her palms itched, a constant reminder, pain rooting her to her body, to the memory of that night as she had struggled to contain a wildfire in her hands.

Gripping them into tight fists now, gloves creaking, she focused on breathing, on calming herself. But it had been a trial of a day. First with Blake sulking about being morose and skittish. Then her father.

She grit her teeth. What an insufferable—! How  _dare_  he—!

It was done now. Neither of them had particularly enjoyed their meeting today, but Weiss was at least confident that she had left with something she had not held when she arrived. Intangible and discursive, yet unquestionably real. Power was something she was used to wielding in the presence of others, but not her father. He remained too accustomed to the fine web of manipulation always bending in his favor, yet for once she had felt a small shift in the playing field. Oh, he had bullied and snarled to the best of his abilities, but in the end she had stood her ground and he had given it. Just an inch. But an inch was all she needed.

By the time she had returned to Beacon, however, she felt drained. The day was slowly crawling to a close. Dinner was in full force. Her friends were doubtlessly waiting. And Weiss could not bring herself to put on a face and greet the crowd. Not yet.

“I was wondering if I’d find you here.”

Weiss’ gaze snapped around to find Blake standing a few paces away. Her eyes glinted amber in the last vestiges of westerly light. For a moment they remained silent, then Weiss huffed, “Sit down already.” She glared at Blake and then at the space on the ground next to her as if daring Blake to deny her this.

On silent feet Blake padded over and sat where invited, folding her body so that her elbows held her bent knees in place. Their hips brushed, but neither of them moved away. The quiet was broken only by the distant sounds of students in the far cafeteria, it’s light spilling from the windows in narrow arcs across the earth. Blake seemed to be contemplating what to say as they stared at the far line of broken trees and pillars, spindly buttresses fractured like twigs from the passing of trampling hooves.

“I really wanted to talk to you,” Blake finally began, her voice soft as a current, “for this whole last week, I mean. And I’m sorry I didn’t sooner. I should have. I know I should have. But I just thought—” She broke off to gather herself, staring off into the horizon instead of at Weiss, who watched her speak, studying her profile, the building brightness of her eyes in the approaching night, “—you spent so much time in those first few days avoiding me that I was convinced you wouldn’t want to see me or talk to me after all that’s happened.”

“You’re—” Weiss’ inhale was sharp, a shard of ice ready to plunge beneath her skin. Yet the building irritation disintegrated into half a smile, a light and fragile laugh. “You’re impossible, Blake Belladonna. I was  _worried_  about you, but I didn’t want to force my way into your space after…everything.”

“Worried?” Blake finally turned. Confusion knit dark brows, set tension in the line of her jaw. “I could have killed you. I almost did.”

“You may have had that ribbon around my throat, but I wasn’t afraid of you, Blake. I was afraid for you, that Cinder would kill  _you_  if you didn’t listen.” White strands scattered across Weiss’ brow when she shook her head. “For as long as I didn’t know you were watching me, you had so many chances to hurt me. Instead you took every chance you could to break free, to reach out.”

Every counter died before Blake could chain the words in order, falling apart as fast as she could cobble them together. She wanted to argue, insist on the blame; how did forgiveness come so easily, why was this balm offered to her along with the first taste of freedom? “I’m still sorry.”

“I know.” One gloved hand cupped her jaw, the palm of it soft and smooth to the touch, Weiss’ fingers tipping down her chin with the utmost care. “May I?”

Blake nodded faintly, the gesture little more than a tremble. When soft lips pressed against hers, firm but not insistent, a spark chased its way through her blood, excited instead of fearful. How long the kiss lasted she couldn’t say, sinking into the sensation until Weiss pulled back, the withdrawal just as gentle as the approach. Her mouth was still warm, heat flaring from cheek to cheek in a full, inescapable blush.

“I told my father he was an idiot, by the way.” Weiss mused, hand finally dropping back down to her lap. “And that he was lucky no one was going to tell the world what he had invested in and wrought in the process. I also told him that there may be some more surprises in his future, if we decide to see things through.”

“ _Weiss_.” She hissed the syllable, relief suffusing it. This was real; a possibility.

“I don’t expect it to be simple or easy, if you intend to try and argue with me.” Tugging at the tips of the doeskin, the glove that had just brushed over her face was taken off, revealing the new webs of scars all over again. Rather than flinch, Blake made herself look, but shock chased away guilt when Weiss’ fingers encompassed the black sleeve around her arm, aligning with the brand beneath it. “We both have a lot to heal from.”

“I’ll be here. I’ll…stay until it is.” Blake managed; the weight of a promise was different than a lie, but  so much easier to bear. “And longer, if you want.”

Weiss’ bare hand slid down to join with hers, fingers entwined after a soft squeeze. “I’ll keep you to that, you know. We should go inside before dinner starts without us.”

They stood together, heels turning in unison against concrete with the first steps towards the dining hall. Beside them, the water of the pond was still and cool, almost serene, but there was heat between their palms, fingertips wedged gently against shared wounds, old and new. Not a fire or a flame, nothing destructive, but a warmth Blake didn’t have a word for yet.

Maybe, with time, they would find it.


End file.
